tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73406457463495117102024-03-14T02:32:01.736-07:00BACK YARD BEATRegular excursions into New York neighborhoods not covered in the mainstream media.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-90966420081004170482011-04-03T08:55:00.000-07:002011-04-05T07:55:27.526-07:00Kavorting in K-Town<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKtnX-uLPTlm82izZ4ug58L1SzC5oVWw40kJDudgMoINuS8gcTb3hc74yT1hM3lliNBaiI_3x6VyJgwb8f_2vEt1Eo9xE3oWTuqFjxZX6z3qyqo9GMaRg3_-l8HxPCgFJogzQvm4p1F1wZ/s1600/In+the+grocery+store+1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591872968222250674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 296px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKtnX-uLPTlm82izZ4ug58L1SzC5oVWw40kJDudgMoINuS8gcTb3hc74yT1hM3lliNBaiI_3x6VyJgwb8f_2vEt1Eo9xE3oWTuqFjxZX6z3qyqo9GMaRg3_-l8HxPCgFJogzQvm4p1F1wZ/s200/In+the+grocery+store+1.jpg" border="0" /></a> <br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">Koreatown in Manhattan occupies roughly the territory between 31st and 36th streets and Fifth and Sixth avenues, but the densest concentration of shops and restaurants is on 32nd Street, west of Fifth--at least 20 eateries, many of them table-top barbecue joints, beauty shops advertising eyelash extensions (apparently a Korean specialty), a large bookstore, and a small supermarket, packed at rush hour. As has been abundantly established, I can never resist an exotic grocery store, and that’s where we head first. This one, HanAhReum, has nowhere near the selection or space of the Hong Kong market chains in Flushing and Brooklyn, but there’s a beckoning assortment of things like dumplings, kimchee (spicy pickled cabbage), and Asian noodles. No eels or froggies here, but I do find a package of something called lobster balls in the frozen food section. </div><br /><div>“Hey, Dave,” I say, “did you know lobsters have balls?” </div><br /><div>“No,” he answers, “but I’m reasonably sure moths do.” </div><br /><div>Nothing really grabs my interest the way the thrillingly unfamiliar goods in Russian an<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHGYgJn8dqivBKn4sTKe6loNo8D9tR_t9DFpKm-J3owGbnTE-DeGTSM0OelD1DDD5jKGlkZGbdHs3fmOjxVcrvNQf71zhpumbG94hVzquKaxtnU9fG4BHiqwpCj3OolQDUEOshgILS1JoU/s1600/Wax+with+cross.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591871755386777122" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHGYgJn8dqivBKn4sTKe6loNo8D9tR_t9DFpKm-J3owGbnTE-DeGTSM0OelD1DDD5jKGlkZGbdHs3fmOjxVcrvNQf71zhpumbG94hVzquKaxtnU9fG4BHiqwpCj3OolQDUEOshgILS1JoU/s200/Wax+with+cross.jpg" border="0" /></a>d other Asian markets did, but I buy the lobster balls, a bag of shrimp crisps, and some unidentified dumplings about the size of half-dollars. We check out the street-level action before deciding on a restaurant, noting an upscale wine bar, several hair-styling parlors, a place for waxes of an unidentified nature with a cross burning brightly above it (the Temple of the Holy Bikini Wax?), fast-food joints, and a sleek-looking patisserie/coffeehouse that we vow to visit after dinner. </div><br /><div>We cruise swiftly through one of the fast-food <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFIJT3r9Zq8RVnqef8_aoe_UA8A0Emzz5bvZZ_lZsnQ8er0yQPAxu6cBqY80fPTxmqpXFkDwkJhS71ybz8WHQ4HLZCrPnv_zmDxgiVIVwAviHRguz0hmDkXx20yuE7jrnNtpdjNLafOXn/s1600/teryaki+beef+strips.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591871435371246866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 135px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFIJT3r9Zq8RVnqef8_aoe_UA8A0Emzz5bvZZ_lZsnQ8er0yQPAxu6cBqY80fPTxmqpXFkDwkJhS71ybz8WHQ4HLZCrPnv_zmDxgiVIVwAviHRguz0hmDkXx20yuE7jrnNtpdjNLafOXn/s200/teryaki+beef+strips.jpg" border="0" /></a>places, where you can buy incredibly healthy-looking fare for about the price of a Big Mac and fries. One of the smiling ladies behind the counter allows us to sample tasty teryaki beef morsels and at the front of the brightly lit spacious restaurant a gangly kid dispenses ribbons of pale p ink and green ice cream into big vats. After passing a studio where Dave swears he once witnessed a pole-dancing class, it’s time for some serious grub and we pick out Gahm Mi Oak at 43 West 42nd Street, a 24/7 restaurant renowned for its sul long tang (touted as a hangover cure), a broth of ox bones boiled for 12 hours and topped with ribbons of brisket, rice, and rice noodles. </div><br /><div>But our appetites lead us to <em>soo yuk</em>, a platter of thinly sliced tongue , brisket, and tripe surrounding a mound of seaweed salad and some dense crispy pancakes of mung beans, scallions, ground pork and kimchee. Also on the menu are Korean-style kielbasa and jambalaya (<em>modum soon dae</em> and <em>bibim bap</em>) , boiled squid with hot sauce, and a gelatin of cow knee—and if tha sounds obnoxious, consider that the place fills up rapidly and we waddle out feeling well sated but still ready for dessert. </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcwRgM8KxE2QtAla4iyMxqn3yrheZBq2kAwHlerYA7878ijMEW3eF_9Q9gLqLL4G05cdH5MpaZZLjydAqQH4e0hQIQ2KnVxpQ0HC3xC-c80boAJz-SE2F7vHxh0sPgv6GZOzbTiDzGA8na/s1600/Gam+Mi+Oak+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591869633475158290" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 128px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcwRgM8KxE2QtAla4iyMxqn3yrheZBq2kAwHlerYA7878ijMEW3eF_9Q9gLqLL4G05cdH5MpaZZLjydAqQH4e0hQIQ2KnVxpQ0HC3xC-c80boAJz-SE2F7vHxh0sPgv6GZOzbTiDzGA8na/s200/Gam+Mi+Oak+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-EJ4PZKvtTn91U08bhheAOQ5SyIHQAL7rWeMNB-FdUSXR-gghalcUHVRQ3GiNi8oxgqPvqlLkowJA1N_JIn0DA1RsVfrk6RirTZQSTgyQN4d7pYITOsChsAk4oOoS7HocU6_AdYMdTJAB/s1600/Gam+Mi+Oak+1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591870184011245650" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 122px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-EJ4PZKvtTn91U08bhheAOQ5SyIHQAL7rWeMNB-FdUSXR-gghalcUHVRQ3GiNi8oxgqPvqlLkowJA1N_JIn0DA1RsVfrk6RirTZQSTgyQN4d7pYITOsChsAk4oOoS7HocU6_AdYMdTJAB/s200/Gam+Mi+Oak+1.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-EJ4PZKvtTn91U08bhheAOQ5SyIHQAL7rWeMNB-FdUSXR-gghalcUHVRQ3GiNi8oxgqPvqlLkowJA1N_JIn0DA1RsVfrk6RirTZQSTgyQN4d7pYITOsChsAk4oOoS7HocU6_AdYMdTJAB/s1600/Gam+Mi+Oak+1.jpg"></a><br /><div>At Kyorodang, a few doors down, we discover the anti-Starbucks: a long and elegant room with armchairs, brick walls, and real trees lining the middle. The clientele are a mixture of chic business types and kids studying to knock your offspring from the rosters of the Ivy League.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591752321300524162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 134px; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0fTvrCBEnoBWP6O0T4Yxli2JIRy6ZQYTpXroBe9MDIfevoeTH23y7EBM8fhNT9koP_ASFeifgU8ImsiE4wF6APRVVQp8zMUdIwD0PPHyxaD20HFqTnGV4R5MWH0GWT6XPFjPwWSuAVG_y/s200/Anti+Starbucks+1.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><div>Our table features a small display of pristine white stones below the surface with a label sternly admonishing “Please do NOT lift the glass and do NOT write on the rocks”—a very weird no-no considering that lifting the glass would require two people to move a table-sized slab. I order a double espresso (a mistake) and Dave a regular coffee (ditto), when we really should be asking for tea in a Korean place. The coffee is far too weak. Then I head to the front to pick out a seductive wedge that looks like a dark chocolate <em>gâteau</em>. But it’s not. It seems made<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591752759940676498" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; HEIGHT: 134px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM7KyY0C0QorG42MZ7mNEW04FweynPWe0QxK8mElZFQanV01d9tzzAs3LFY4acPO1T9IZlaFyI43iR2Bu2XpEbrjYfLBzFFtIlLktMMcXhe08tpw5-IzKzzsJL1n4FU28ioOJtDdZuxhbA/s200/Hot+Dogs.jpg" border="0" /> from the same sticky spongy stuff that goes into other Asian pastries, and it comes with a small bewildering tag that reads: “PATISSERIE: Please understand how I feel with my heartly present.” I think I do, but if I visit this place again I will go for something less exotic, like “Hot Dog Ketchup” or “Hot Dog Bacon,” which are franks stuffed in what looks like a croissant crust. Let’s face it, some foods are simply best left to their cultures of origin.</div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-54330305604722581722010-09-06T06:06:00.000-07:002010-09-10T07:51:02.484-07:00Brighton Beach Memoir (part 3)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtL0PZv2BJ0NLdySBJDD7uzlcheeej8pL1Ac9L-zChC1c6H4cMWsj3a-lDDha8srFMkyvQtq5Hiw0V7-KBdGtsDojcCKKgQKe1u6g1v-Ou4REHoTJjDS1ICOZ7eFsNxHt_FSNkbqdfaMQZ/s1600/Produce+display.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515276550049672578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 308px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtL0PZv2BJ0NLdySBJDD7uzlcheeej8pL1Ac9L-zChC1c6H4cMWsj3a-lDDha8srFMkyvQtq5Hiw0V7-KBdGtsDojcCKKgQKe1u6g1v-Ou4REHoTJjDS1ICOZ7eFsNxHt_FSNkbqdfaMQZ/s400/Produce+display.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>We make two more trips to Brighton Beach, stopping each time at the Brighton Bazaar: <a href="http://www.brightonbazaar.com/">http://www.brightonbazaar.com/</a>. This has probably the loveliest produce display in the neighborhood, but the big draw is the “salad bar,” and I use quotation marks here because it’s a whole lot more than salads: eight kinds of blintzes, for example, from sour cherry to mushroom; stuffed peppers; six kinds of soup; potato and vegetable latkes; cold sl<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbc8z46QnjR7uRSLD7kqd_YkSIWasbMerP-6IgveXxKoDnw0kclnOn8qeA67nl5GX3u_57JmeAR0y2c2cJlO8oMaidmt4pYD6eIamAjoam6MwLqpJt1wQNrhvcTNRr1yiOH8FP8LfBmJkf/s1600/Bliny.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515277461964512178" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 136px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbc8z46QnjR7uRSLD7kqd_YkSIWasbMerP-6IgveXxKoDnw0kclnOn8qeA67nl5GX3u_57JmeAR0y2c2cJlO8oMaidmt4pYD6eIamAjoam6MwLqpJt1wQNrhvcTNRr1yiOH8FP8LfBmJkf/s200/Bliny.jpg" border="0" /></a>iced beef tongue with garlic ho<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglu_QcdGdIthEEAM4-qj6ehS0E3IC_D1gjbHECRz_TLkFUpSwMtfJ8bqAqUMHT-7bmlmidnDS1mv_HBoaEhjZjuSeZHvbf3KDavhIpzcI3XeTipL1CTnsm-NEk3ljlAIw8M-xYp3DuqXTZ/s1600/Salad+under+a+fur+coat.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515275815383792978" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 246px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglu_QcdGdIthEEAM4-qj6ehS0E3IC_D1gjbHECRz_TLkFUpSwMtfJ8bqAqUMHT-7bmlmidnDS1mv_HBoaEhjZjuSeZHvbf3KDavhIpzcI3XeTipL1CTnsm-NEk3ljlAIw8M-xYp3DuqXTZ/s320/Salad+under+a+fur+coat.jpg" border="0" /></a>rseradish; a salad Dave translates as herring with a fur coat, which means a thick dusting of chopped egg on top; eggplant nut salad; pollack in tomato sauce; smelts and gefilte fish; bacon-wrapped liver; stewed apples; stroganoff and chicken kiev. And the list goes on and on.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>People load up containers for an instant dinner, and if this is fast food, I’m all for it.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>There are also displays of fresh meats and poultry; pel’meni (dumplings) you buy by the scoop; and at least 20 kinds of smoked fish, from capitan and trout to mackerel and salmon.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Cx7VPrzSTfIFu3keOtYU6rffzMsLl3G8x5pWwDPjcVAukBYYgJGNCswItkZmw7DzVwiL4Gt4PWAOOBX0ZGpKstRIZ0DKVQiOkMUYAf-Lp_7RknsIBVpn7kuiddtuJpSyLQc22C3hf1KZ/s1600/Frozen+Pel%27meni+by+the+scoop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515273487738015762" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Cx7VPrzSTfIFu3keOtYU6rffzMsLl3G8x5pWwDPjcVAukBYYgJGNCswItkZmw7DzVwiL4Gt4PWAOOBX0ZGpKstRIZ0DKVQiOkMUYAf-Lp_7RknsIBVpn7kuiddtuJpSyLQc22C3hf1KZ/s320/Frozen+Pel%27meni+by+the+scoop.jpg" border="0" /></a> On one foray, I load up on something that looks like a chicken terrine but turns out to be a richly patchworked head cheese, Mother Goose “liverwurst,” a round of Camembert (okay, that’s not Russian, but it’s only $1.99), 10 ounces of goat cheese at $5.99, tiny Danish pastries, dark molasses bread, exotic-looking chocolate wafer cookies, and preserved smoked chicken legs. All of this comes to less than 25 bucks. </div><br /><br /><br /><div>I have not done a complete sampling of my haul as yet, but the bread is just as good as the loaf we sampled at Cafe Glechik, described in a previous post. The head cheese is a little strange, and falls apart easily, but it has a lusty flavor and dense texture. I served the Camembert with cocktails to a friend, and though it was just shy of fully ripe, the cheese went down smoothly with water crackers.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>And Gaiser’s Mother Goose liver spread? Well, here I must digress. Perhaps my palate is not as sophisticated as I would like, but this seemed to me every bit as irresistible as the foie gras I’ve eaten in high-end restaurants at, say, $12 for a tiny crock. Of course I feel horrible ordering this stuff. I know how the geese suffer and won't get into details in a PG-rated blog, but here’s a link if you want all the nasty facts: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foie_gras">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foie_gras</a><br /></div><br /><br /><div>My first serious introduction to this velvety nirvana came on a trip to Dordogne, where the local specialty is foie gras, on vacation with a vegetarian friend about a decade ago. I broke out in a guilty sweat buying a tiny slab of the stuff on market day, when I managed to sneak away from B, who, bless her, is a fervent champion of animal rights. So I stashed the liver in the back of the fridge, behind bottles of water and juice, and slipped downstairs on tiptoe in the middle of the night to smear foie gras on pieces of baguette. So this is the way alcoholics live, I thought. Needless say, I came back from the French countryside about five pounds heavier. </div><br /><br /><div>The good news about Gaiser’s product is that it’s made from finely ground pork, chicken liver, and veal (which may warm your heart, because the geese were spared, or rouse your ire, because three other beasts were involved). I swear, though, if you scoop this stuff from the tube and smooth it down in a nice serving dish, surrounded by cornichons, your guests will be none the wiser. Pick up some cheap caviar and smoked fish at the Brighton Bazaar and you can easily and cheaply underwrite one of the smartest cocktail parties in town. </div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-35370341606220776642010-08-11T07:50:00.000-07:002010-08-12T05:41:28.769-07:00Brighton Beach Memoir (part 2)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyCNQ0YkZb0LOoF6DKeqrFYUBStnT8lebnwd7Zu3mSI5OmDlvMeaS9S0gKVnKwo9et1590vv7WLSa6W-nGd_wz4gGluUseBH6Vrf_fzvpR4061gZEAUzsm-xMtpuZBlcOKSB1FaF1VtGNl/s1600/Boardwalk+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504494278048933490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 225px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyCNQ0YkZb0LOoF6DKeqrFYUBStnT8lebnwd7Zu3mSI5OmDlvMeaS9S0gKVnKwo9et1590vv7WLSa6W-nGd_wz4gGluUseBH6Vrf_fzvpR4061gZEAUzsm-xMtpuZBlcOKSB1FaF1VtGNl/s400/Boardwalk+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>What the Italians call <em>la passeggiata</em> is surely one of the finest spectacles on earth, but there seem to me to be a limited number of outstanding spots on the globe in which to partake of this sublimely democratic pleasure. One of my favorites is the Piazza Navona in Rome on New Year’s Day, when the overstuffed matrons parade around the fountains in mink coats (even if the temperature is 60 degrees). There are a few great hangouts in Central Park, and of course any European café on a well-trafficked thoroughfare affords the pleasures of what my father called simply “people watching.”<br /><br /><div><br />But for the sheer variety of humanity in all its full-blown lunacy, nothing quite compares with the boardwalk at Brighton Beach.<br /><br /><br />It’s around six p.m., on one of the few rare and balmy nights in this hellhouse of a summer, when Dave and I amble along between the broad stretch of sand and the restaurants, looking for the Tatiana Grill (<a href="http://www.tatianagrill.com/home.php">http://www.tatianagrill.com/home.php</a>). In the far distance people are swimming in the waters between Brighton and Breezy Point; in the near, neatly uniformed waiters beckon to passers-by to take a table and sample their fare. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>When we find the place, which looks like it's been transported intact from the Riviera, we’re shown to a table right at the edge of the boardwalk and promptly served a carafe of vodka with two small snifter-type glasses and a bowl of ice. And then we just sit for the next three hours and soak it up.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5SuQfys7V-5dyp1fJeVk4QHpou9Ray_uwXdBdo59ZRQ0JhDr_P7KZKFhAUSI8hFqCjH5cs45GX8zLfFqP4X3EQMtBMJmIdalsV1wPQmDm8g44nyhrH8uKTekTh1tkpQgo9qsv63foaGB/s1600/The+Cafe.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504349715262868162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 211px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5SuQfys7V-5dyp1fJeVk4QHpou9Ray_uwXdBdo59ZRQ0JhDr_P7KZKFhAUSI8hFqCjH5cs45GX8zLfFqP4X3EQMtBMJmIdalsV1wPQmDm8g44nyhrH8uKTekTh1tkpQgo9qsv63foaGB/s320/The+Cafe.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />There are Orthodox Jewish couples in yarmulkes and headscarves; Indian wom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3m3lJbyh-hjkyCqiLsDCX1oLS-XezywR2Q1DYaWdq0jLDkxPjbXYv5I6yHCI8SOquDF93imq0_eIz_K0-9hYao2-3rU628LjWO57sn6k-oScBvTDiBEbI2fj3SuBaI-B0faWMCwIuzKW/s1600/Man+with+cat.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504347018871083858" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3m3lJbyh-hjkyCqiLsDCX1oLS-XezywR2Q1DYaWdq0jLDkxPjbXYv5I6yHCI8SOquDF93imq0_eIz_K0-9hYao2-3rU628LjWO57sn6k-oScBvTDiBEbI2fj3SuBaI-B0faWMCwIuzKW/s320/Man+with+cat.jpg" border="0" /></a>en in gorgeous saris; exquisitely dressed Russian girls teetering along in stiletto heels; fat couples and elderly couples; little kids and just about every type of canine known to humankind. Right in front of us, for more than an hour, a handsome hunk hangs with his friends while cradling in his arms a hairless cat of the breed known as a Sphinx. This turns out to be an irresistible babe magnet, as just about every cute young thing ventures closer to admire the wizened little feline. It's like using Yoda for date bait.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Farther down, a fashion shoot is in progress. A photographer and stylist and go-fers dance attendance on a skinny model with an outlandish mop of frizzy hair. She can’t be more than 18, but I’m not going to worry what her mother thinks of all this since she’s probably making more in an evening than I scrape together in a month. (Later we will see her posing again in the traffic island along Brighton Beach Avenue, a truly weird tableau, kind of like <em>Vogue</em> meets Dante’s <em>Inferno</em>.)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJxfxBpg-hwH1SdNqQ_lXiYglNJUBqtYKY8Zz5i0j7XpU735brMolIIliBAEoHq7h9WDv8JyDA5xjmUyZqat4yB7hOTDpgAYdXuQyWNDzqZ8e_ZnXRMgUmWK032eZucnMUHVkPm0WnFeW/s1600/Fixing+the+model%27s+hair.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504347299423353282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 252px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJxfxBpg-hwH1SdNqQ_lXiYglNJUBqtYKY8Zz5i0j7XpU735brMolIIliBAEoHq7h9WDv8JyDA5xjmUyZqat4yB7hOTDpgAYdXuQyWNDzqZ8e_ZnXRMgUmWK032eZucnMUHVkPm0WnFeW/s320/Fixing+the+model%27s+hair.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LK9GBAkstQnbOstyG0tFbebyoS2vwSaUp7L89dh6QdI7bMgxig644xXyCzt1_faFSb41g46eldpgq_e7nZYgxti_0wZYafYeKpLeTbc5_6SB224hVIoc5PGTOcIDIjFN9Cufex9_OC91/s1600/Model+on+the+divider+strip+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504347666822851506" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LK9GBAkstQnbOstyG0tFbebyoS2vwSaUp7L89dh6QdI7bMgxig644xXyCzt1_faFSb41g46eldpgq_e7nZYgxti_0wZYafYeKpLeTbc5_6SB224hVIoc5PGTOcIDIjFN9Cufex9_OC91/s320/Model+on+the+divider+strip+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Still stuffed with liver and dumplings, we don’t have much of an appetite but order some pickled herring to keep the vodka company. We decide to return later to sample more of the menu, which includes traditional Russian staples like stroganoff and chicken kiev, as well as more exotic fare along the lines of foie gras with wineberry sauce, baby lamb tongue, and cold or hot green borscht. The restaurant doesn’t seem to mind a whit that our food intake is skimpy. We sit there till well after sundown, and no one badgers us to order more or leave.<br /><br />For about 30 bucks, this beats dinner and a movie any day. </div><div> </div><div>********</div><div></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong>IF YOU GO:</strong> See the previous post. You should be up to page 123 in <em>War and Peace</em> by now.</div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-13038232200938411062010-08-01T13:39:00.000-07:002010-08-11T08:14:29.668-07:00Brighton Beach Memoir (part 1)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTpVREx27nIYzB0dWuxd6ce66y8tITKv1L_e32DWfnkJTTRGl62zeqAIh0oCRcUrIozfcwaqlCpwDcBTP73s_Nw1h2yMBnrFNbS6-I464zLWZjHrbeevRf5tJBbJ1lK9Pj2EzQ8TvPPQgJ/s1600/Baby+Face.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501921259993870482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 255px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTpVREx27nIYzB0dWuxd6ce66y8tITKv1L_e32DWfnkJTTRGl62zeqAIh0oCRcUrIozfcwaqlCpwDcBTP73s_Nw1h2yMBnrFNbS6-I464zLWZjHrbeevRf5tJBbJ1lK9Pj2EzQ8TvPPQgJ/s320/Baby+Face.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpo9_5L3e6v5ooBuTxtn9BAvE5VrSt7hW-HfvrGafjpI93P-v5DHqCwXVoxGBYdHGarxCcjZABsLuLTKg7PV75iKf4pDBxQGBP9ZGbxUhsPUAWpwW7G88qt482SAGdTY3mx4wQm1S-Kt3/s1600/Baby+Face.jpg"><br /></a><br />“Well, that’s a smart thing to be carrying in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood,” says Dave when I pull out the cloth carry-all I’d brought for shopping in the Russian community of Brighton Beach. It’s green, red, and white with Arabic letters, a freebie from a press conference for a new museum in Abu Dhabi.<br /><br />“But, look, it has a star of David,” I say, pointing to a little blue shape.<br /><br />“Look again, kiddo,” says Dave. “It has only five points.”<br /><br />So much for my ethnic sensitivity. An almost lifelong New Yorker, I really should know better. I fold up the bag and shove it back in my purse.<br /><br />Our end goal, on our first trip to Brighton, is the boardwalk about two city blocks from the subway stop, but it is only 3.30 in the afternoon and we decide to shop first. On the eastern end of Brighton Beach Avenue, I am drawn to a display of gaudy clothing in a store absurdly called Via Veneto. There are bags and shoes and dresses in the window, not particularly stylish by Madison Avenue standards, but bright and cheerful and, I am hoping, reasonably priced. As we enter, Dave greets the slender young salesgirl in Russian while I make a beeline for a rack of blouses. I peer at the tag on a dark-blue number, trimmed with little sequins, and I can’t help but gasp: $375! I look at another, on sale: $225!<br /><br />“Would you like to see some dresses?” the young woman asks as I am sheepishly edging for the door, too frightened even to look more closely at the table of handbags.<br /><br />How do you say, Hell no in Russian? I am about to ask Dave, but he is picking up on my cues, nodding a polite good-bye as he follows me out.<br /><br />As an antidote to sticker shock, we head for a supermarket we had passed earlier, the Brighton Bazaar, and I am immediately delighted with the sight of a well-stocked produce section, filled with affordable fruits and vegetables ($1.99 for a pint of raspberries, $1.49 a pound for Jersey beefsteak tomatoes). We stroll past salad bars and steaming trays of cooked food, but I will tell you more about this in a future post, because after about ten minutes of wandering the aisles, we are both so hungry we decide to find a restaurant Dave has searched out earlier.<br /><br />As we head toward the Café Glechik, we pass another clothing store, offering possibly one of the scariest displays of women’s garments I have ever seen. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_ahVA-ngxNufjiYe5lEvKbsWseMUklgdBrcc1WdfYUzSelHrdmFsE6XdcXC2o7J_eRyoYgPBgLnEqxCffDMqOdceCTky9yI2P_LHfhE1vT9u7tIzk8pGBEvNXmwkENA6gtGOZDl8PrH2/s1600/Vampire+ladies.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500916233532776354" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 233px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_ahVA-ngxNufjiYe5lEvKbsWseMUklgdBrcc1WdfYUzSelHrdmFsE6XdcXC2o7J_eRyoYgPBgLnEqxCffDMqOdceCTky9yI2P_LHfhE1vT9u7tIzk8pGBEvNXmwkENA6gtGOZDl8PrH2/s320/Vampire+ladies.jpg" border="0" /></a> Floating in the window are seven-foot-tall mannequins, approximately the color of dried cement, dressed in outlandish black-and-white garments….or are they costumes? Who would wear these on any occasion but Halloween, or am I betraying my ethnic insensitivity again? We stare for a minute or two, transfixed, but no way am I setting foot in that place.<br /><br />A couple of doors down is the Café Glechik, a narrow, inviting, and spotlessly clean little place, neither truly a café in the European sense nor a coffee shop (<a href="http://www.glechik.com/">www.glechik.com</a>). The walls are decorated with Ukrainian costumes, musical instruments, and knickknacks, since the cuisine reflects the port city of Odessa.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsNf74vuLChpOvsiV29UNtRPUe0q88dgWbyd_dQxZrYivas6C42dPGE-wh8LBv2E7CEUuwq7XM74TL6_22v1C-xPImCwwes_xGdVZ0dQFn9a0-QSXn3G_qHhz_tv1uyIwJhMd8uC71mhxK/s1600/Glechik+wall.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500917241614747682" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 161px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsNf74vuLChpOvsiV29UNtRPUe0q88dgWbyd_dQxZrYivas6C42dPGE-wh8LBv2E7CEUuwq7XM74TL6_22v1C-xPImCwwes_xGdVZ0dQFn9a0-QSXn3G_qHhz_tv1uyIwJhMd8uC71mhxK/s320/Glechik+wall.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Dave wants me to try beef tongue, but I just can’t go there stone cold sober, and we instead order Siberian pel'meni (dumplings), chopped liver, and Perrier since Dave advises against the Russian sparkling water, something called Borzhumi. The waiter brings a basket of white and dark bread; the latter is like not<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6tgcYGLDW98xE5xbvTdgVWMXTvhhp5XdZNOdam0knpZyTrVJtCoDIXdZOJkEEr8fJ3urBtcGYQ7aQv8GZaNc3SunopqNerJGzAY-mjWD3bIMYZCAjWOXqxI3i9ctF_CAJ5dQ-197zOcKd/s1600/Liver+1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500923113208173666" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 194px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6tgcYGLDW98xE5xbvTdgVWMXTvhhp5XdZNOdam0knpZyTrVJtCoDIXdZOJkEEr8fJ3urBtcGYQ7aQv8GZaNc3SunopqNerJGzAY-mjWD3bIMYZCAjWOXqxI3i9ctF_CAJ5dQ-197zOcKd/s200/Liver+1.jpg" border="0" /></a>hing I’ve tasted before: both chewy and moist, with a hint of molasses and an almost spongy texture. Immediately I am slathering it with unsalted butter. When the liver arrives, dusted with chopped egg, I add a generous layer of that too, but it has a sweetish flavor, and is nothing like what I’ve been served in the good Jewish homes in which I am inexplicably welcome.<br /><br />The dumplings, though, are fabulous. They arrive in a darling little glazed earthenware crock and are approximately the size of walnuts, with a nugget of mystery meat enfolded inside a dough that has the firmness and texture of <em>al dente</em> pasta. Dave shows me how to eat them Russian style: with a dollop of sour cream and a splash of vinegar. “These are the best we’ve had so far,” he says.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9X8FC5mK2NHudAfUroq0gY_f_etU5B_OHiq7Slm7OKlO9z-KYTp2iSOqBHo6CM54lOyLXlIHiSafjCsH8Nowe_9Q-cYYynBJxaTaLlv9Q2CJgeyUmLF20ujaCaIYtx7ahgJ_xsFRb2VB/s1600/Dumplings+1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500919037873293218" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 196px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9X8FC5mK2NHudAfUroq0gY_f_etU5B_OHiq7Slm7OKlO9z-KYTp2iSOqBHo6CM54lOyLXlIHiSafjCsH8Nowe_9Q-cYYynBJxaTaLlv9Q2CJgeyUmLF20ujaCaIYtx7ahgJ_xsFRb2VB/s320/Dumplings+1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />“I would say it’s a toss-up between these and Shanghai Joe’s.”<br /><br /><br />Thoroughly stuffed, we amble down Brighton Avenue, past specialty stores selling brightly wrapped candies, caviar, and many different kids of coffee, tea, and smoked fish. In e<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuv6s4fO8xOcRJAhV2g2AC7y2JGF9Kx7TJebEtppLm5_8k0dRYBmE6cKEc4Uwb732nNEheV1LMbcjca4wS0xVp9Tb60PhyK0wRL7V92srDjFBxVtxr9XlZmEmV8Is5NDugiRGzzHQ4fCjd/s1600/Sidewalk+Vendor+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500920561298252802" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuv6s4fO8xOcRJAhV2g2AC7y2JGF9Kx7TJebEtppLm5_8k0dRYBmE6cKEc4Uwb732nNEheV1LMbcjca4wS0xVp9Tb60PhyK0wRL7V92srDjFBxVtxr9XlZmEmV8Is5NDugiRGzzHQ4fCjd/s320/Sidewalk+Vendor+2.jpg" border="0" /></a>very block, it seems, there is a cheerful, sometimes nearly toothless, Russian matron standing outside, behind tables of pastries filled with chicken, cheese, or fruit. These are a bit like knishes, but flakier and delightfully greasy. One on top of dumplings and bread fulfills my carb quota for the week. We p<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuoPTayk4VDBnN2eIvTohyphenhyphenH8HsqXqyPuiMxYvDsKZmGVjknAOmK-Dc6hGe7KWFisrYRVKHZO2pvExeDn4Xl-qcg3cS4GPQWt_-COmx06Aj5MdnxThmxQEAA26nvPBE7uFTtzQnmeMgpfF/s1600/Jewelry+Store+photo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500922032948787922" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 271px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOuoPTayk4VDBnN2eIvTohyphenhyphenH8HsqXqyPuiMxYvDsKZmGVjknAOmK-Dc6hGe7KWFisrYRVKHZO2pvExeDn4Xl-qcg3cS4GPQWt_-COmx06Aj5MdnxThmxQEAA26nvPBE7uFTtzQnmeMgpfF/s320/Jewelry+Store+photo.jpg" border="0" /></a>ass a shop selling fur coats in July and pharmacies where staples like aspirin and laundry detergent are two to four dollars cheaper than in Manhattan.<br /><br />Occasionally we spot a beautiful young Russian woman, leggy as a ballerina and with cheekbones like origami. One of them, standing outside a jewelry store, snaps at Dave in Russian as he tries to take a photo of the goods on display. Later he explains the exchange: She says it’s illegal to take photos like that. His reply: The hell it is.<br /><br />But enough with the window shopping. The sun is moving past the yardarm and it’s time for vodka and the beach.<br /><br /><br /><strong>IF YOU GO</strong>: Get the Q train to the Brighton stop. The trip from Times Square takes approximately 45 minutes, so this is a very good opportunity to start reading <em>War and Peace. </em>And<em> </em>you will want to come back many times, so there's a chance you might finish the book in your lifetime.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-91800986855389397882010-07-03T09:03:00.000-07:002010-08-11T11:36:41.323-07:00Manhattan's Chinatown (2)<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489797557384825554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 521px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 391px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8442UnhDKA5IxiIFQplwCL2o3fdsoeyeQK-eTLprpuRgIKUVl6lk9VG4FlPHDNye3w1tQVCDzSLEP4vQDhzpni56dkF7GMoKm5-1JinXf7iZUEWmBRglpH6csekM9LPwrfewrxeOffPS8/s400/Couple+at+Joe%27s.jpg" border="0" /> G is a fount of information on Chinatown and Chinese cuisine. The area around the bakery is heavy Fujian territory, whose cooking, according to Wikipedia, is “refined in taste with no ‘loud’ flavors.” A dish called Buddha Jumps over the Wall is one specialty, red sauce chicken is another (for more about this, see <a href="http://www.chinadaily.net/english/doc/2004-01/09/content_297516.htm">http://www.chinadaily.net/english/doc/2004-01/09/content_297516.htm</a>).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9CfEptY7doSYIa_nZJ7SoHzqDeLQ0OxJW48PLY9GlVV2E6gZ5PtMqIoSeZKDKJEw5U9uv0hLcds1tcc4lDwIIKQDc-EwtT_0V7vIcNefMD1J7uFOdhl3KRiIjoFFg_lSbkbuNuAI5esv/s1600/Guitar+Chicken.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489799413533693682" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 209px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 321px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9CfEptY7doSYIa_nZJ7SoHzqDeLQ0OxJW48PLY9GlVV2E6gZ5PtMqIoSeZKDKJEw5U9uv0hLcds1tcc4lDwIIKQDc-EwtT_0V7vIcNefMD1J7uFOdhl3KRiIjoFFg_lSbkbuNuAI5esv/s400/Guitar+Chicken.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><br />G also tells us that the oddly shaped, pressed ducks hanging in some windows are known as “peipa” or “mandolins,” after the musical instruments. As we cruise through a small market, he picks up a package of chicken feet, which make the best stock for soup, he claims, because they’re loaded with gelatin (after my disaster with the silkie chicken, several posts back, however, I’m steering clear of weird poultry experiments).<br /><br /><br /><br />And then we chance on Doyers Street, a charming little alleyway that was once known as the Bloody Angle. “This street has the number-one record for homicides committed in New York,” says G, who seems absurdly puffed-up by that factoid, as though he himself had been packing a Beretta....though given his mysterious history, maybe he was. “More people were gunned down here than in any other place in the U.S.” He points out a movie theater in a mall, which had to close because the gangs kept plugging members of the audience (for more photos and history, go to <a href="http://vanishingnewyork.blogspot.com/2008/08/doyers-street.html">http://vanishingnewyork.blogspot.com/2008/08/doyers-street.html</a>).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVrfZA-m-7HmP5BeD4-kIOeXsRp-2blJzJmzbh6YLuHFyu_eoMDse2vuSF0G_xCktTR_kZ5qOJQ_fbRJ8cSP_ozLpX5Ye1cW8ouZ2JGmlMLRSIGvUnBA5SRV_-OBtXtEAsn0I_Xa9hmcRY/s1600/Doyers.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489716426362525954" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 283px; HEIGHT: 187px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVrfZA-m-7HmP5BeD4-kIOeXsRp-2blJzJmzbh6YLuHFyu_eoMDse2vuSF0G_xCktTR_kZ5qOJQ_fbRJ8cSP_ozLpX5Ye1cW8ouZ2JGmlMLRSIGvUnBA5SRV_-OBtXtEAsn0I_Xa9hmcRY/s400/Doyers.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />With stories like that, of course, our appetites are whetted for some serious dinnertime grub, and we head over to Joe’s Shanghai Restaurant, where one of the specialties is soup dumplings.<br /><br /></div><div>These plump, pillowy delights arrive nestled in a bamboo steamer basket. You eat them by scooping one onto a ceramic spoon and pouring a little sauce made from vinega<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoXur8E7N70kWUdtctD9fGQrlpNhaoJNF2mMkvV6il1S9dSY0wXwfTxYbsRRpuqcAmppd2h_VMewMwXC7ZtBPEqFno4i8VyFt-CwZ2ZY3aYCpIVW-i7wTXOGApD-Ur7yvFGCFkzoaU9K1N/s1600/Blog+2+Image+2.jpg"></a>r, soy sauce, and minced ginger onto the dumpling. It’s a messy transaction (beware the tiny cloud of steam), but the reward<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQO5tI5P4Xv6GTK4ThPucqIAGzH6n-0n5N7mBa9XnaLz6SYtmzOkNKbtoOq9LVImJuHewTRIoKuNqKwoQ40b-CapJABEDtt2gb4vIdXjKM3lJS-v5r1Q5BL2-6P8V9Pv44Ab8ceTu_KBum/s1600/dumpling2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490868039075108306" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 181px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQO5tI5P4Xv6GTK4ThPucqIAGzH6n-0n5N7mBa9XnaLz6SYtmzOkNKbtoOq9LVImJuHewTRIoKuNqKwoQ40b-CapJABEDtt2gb4vIdXjKM3lJS-v5r1Q5BL2-6P8V9Pv44Ab8ceTu_KBum/s320/dumpling2.jpg" border="0" /></a> is a yummy mélange of chewy, sweet, and sour.<br /><br /><br />We follow that course with platters of crispy pepper-skin duck, calamari with spicy black bean sauce, and mushrooms with bamboo shoots. Way too much for three people, but all tasty and a relative bargain at prices from $9 to $16. The place is immensely popular and fillsl up quickly, so dine early or be prepared for a line (Shanghai Joes, 9 Pell Street; <a href="http://www.joeshanghairestaurants.com/">http://www.joeshanghairestaurants.com/</a> You'll also find excellent video instructions here on how to eat soup dumplings).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6iPcGXBWimEZtT9a9cfrC4kv9SAtXWMJibvNTmN5w4XW67nUeiTPf8jwXT6TxMpPrjyg8OeANquXkvusMknS1hQBBZlkwzQ0VruaRa2bVieSAJkvGCepYtKDGwpNqRi5hhErpGvdI6YAy/s1600/Blog+2+Image+3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489794168527432882" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 267px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 355px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6iPcGXBWimEZtT9a9cfrC4kv9SAtXWMJibvNTmN5w4XW67nUeiTPf8jwXT6TxMpPrjyg8OeANquXkvusMknS1hQBBZlkwzQ0VruaRa2bVieSAJkvGCepYtKDGwpNqRi5hhErpGvdI6YAy/s400/Blog+2+Image+3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A postprandial stroll to a wedge of Mulberry Street with a high concentration of funeral parlors completes our Chinatown tour<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfF7LwkKqRzhVF7hqJOG_UbvRWXZDw5YMOf_7stXnwuDU2JznznEEW7zhfjnfzHPPZHFVq0_K8GnrRwHl5kAx9lEzsipcI-ZigL1pzMGkdQsy_SGjFXbjgJvhjjyZsJ-9PeFo8rAUclSc/s1600/Funeral+street+view.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489797058623461010" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfF7LwkKqRzhVF7hqJOG_UbvRWXZDw5YMOf_7stXnwuDU2JznznEEW7zhfjnfzHPPZHFVq0_K8GnrRwHl5kAx9lEzsipcI-ZigL1pzMGkdQsy_SGjFXbjgJvhjjyZsJ-9PeFo8rAUclSc/s400/Funeral+street+view.jpg" border="0" /></a>. We have not quite gone from cradle to grave, but it’s been a fine introduction.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Thank you, G.<br /><br /><strong>IF YOU GO: See the previous post.</strong></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-54519989558737426032010-06-30T10:23:00.000-07:002010-07-07T05:50:33.491-07:00Manhattan's Chinatown (1)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu9KoJyrx6icoU7Cj02B7g5YZSa5u6DZ0lYenjRKiwlnVQzRnXC96F349EmxKPZfJMLv13RkVdrqLzXxU3Yn1U1QR7pDNaQ_8PuKzrd-yQSgcWCTcZFXKurf7MMirjwBiFss9PopzsTEO5/s1600/Manhattan+Ctown+opener"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489689509234815170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu9KoJyrx6icoU7Cj02B7g5YZSa5u6DZ0lYenjRKiwlnVQzRnXC96F349EmxKPZfJMLv13RkVdrqLzXxU3Yn1U1QR7pDNaQ_8PuKzrd-yQSgcWCTcZFXKurf7MMirjwBiFss9PopzsTEO5/s400/Manhattan+Ctown+opener" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div></div><div>Our guide to Manhattan’s Chinatown, let’s call him G, is a mysterious character. Having worked undercover in the neighborhood for some years in a capacity he prefers not to reveal (FBI? Narc? NYPD?), he knows the area well. He’s a gruff, slouchy kind of guy, with a distinctive outer-borough honk, and one’s instinct is to trust him immediately.<br /></div><br /><div>"You know why Chinatown has more banks than any other part of the city?” he asks when we meet him on the corner of Canal Street and Lafayette. </div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>We shake our heads in ignorance as we notice that savings-and-loans do indeed abound. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br /><br /><div>“Because the Chinese, more than any other culture, are great savers. And banks are not stupid.”<br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>As we venture toward Mott Street, into the heart of Chinatown, G points out a display of all-gold baubles in a jewelry store. “This is for the bride to wear at her wedding banquet,” he explains. “Whenever she changes clothes, she puts on more jewelry. Generally the jewelry stays within the family, but close relatives will buy her even more loot.”<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7prkcFOsKKt8PyGjmjBJdYoX0OVXJo6QU0UZPl1CiaCSOtE3yznKi3rY7IHYYTSa-a6FxkgR0t46YBhyphenhyphenzxAzQxmGlOLzfrZDCcFkihpi3YAHgu6Y6cPo6rH8bMYAa1wgJNETiSWAn5Rcp/s1600/Ctown+jewelry"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488619611553695122" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7prkcFOsKKt8PyGjmjBJdYoX0OVXJo6QU0UZPl1CiaCSOtE3yznKi3rY7IHYYTSa-a6FxkgR0t46YBhyphenhyphenzxAzQxmGlOLzfrZDCcFkihpi3YAHgu6Y6cPo6rH8bMYAa1wgJNETiSWAn5Rcp/s320/Ctown+jewelry" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>We stop at Yunhong Chopsticks (50 Mott Street; <a href="http://nymag.com/listings/stores/yunhong-chopsticks">http://nymag.com/listings/stores/yunhong-chopsticks</a>), which carries every conceivable variation on these utensils, made from bamboo to sandalwood to ebony, priced from about $2 to $600. I can’t resist browsing for a while, taking note that these would make great wedding or shower gifts, but Dave quickly shows signs of boredom.<br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>As we stroll by one of the many ubiquitous pastry shops, G enlightens us as to why so many of these confections look French but don’t taste that way. The Chinese love pastry but they generally make theirs with Swan’s <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfbQLMZr81kPVEO0QqdwRCxa-4O6Utf8X46neQzYxHXFQqpnzhcfOAoZAwsC2bz6E-fHmeGzDJJVgOo-59mWOr50wUwtRUVw1_3ueZiD3oUOzpb3IXcJjOdWJJUn9exDoJUjBa1guvX9Q/s1600/best+bakery+shot"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488620338733071730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 181px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfbQLMZr81kPVEO0QqdwRCxa-4O6Utf8X46neQzYxHXFQqpnzhcfOAoZAwsC2bz6E-fHmeGzDJJVgOo-59mWOr50wUwtRUVw1_3ueZiD3oUOzpb3IXcJjOdWJJUn9exDoJUjBa1guvX9Q/s320/best+bakery+shot" border="0" /></a>Down cake mix, he claims. At the ineptly named Manna House Bakery (27 Catherine Street), we drop in to sample the goods. According to G, the place tears through about 50 pounds of butter and 24 dozen eggs a day. It’s a modest little spot, with lines snaking outside the door on weekends, says G, but the ridiculously underpriced pastries (from 60 cents to $1.50) are worth the trip. Try the pineapple buns or egg-custard tarts, whose “diminutive crust flakes into buttery shards under your teeth, and the jiggly soft custard tastes purely of eggs and sweet milk,” raves the <em>Village Voice</em>. And that’s no overstatement.<br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div><strong>IF YOU GO: Take any of several trains to Lafayette and Canal. Good maps and more info at </strong><a href="http://www.nychinatown.org/canal2.html">http://www.nychinatown.org/canal2.html</a></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-48638539815358439332010-06-02T08:10:00.001-07:002010-08-11T11:34:17.769-07:00Chinatown in Brooklyn<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZpiergEGpKgHBC1aqM22AcruGsak6b587DX6ifUFipVo24IkKP5YzGz871x32AguIEinDk1IACJqNbkrwx_5cp1RNVfeB16jPAXkF1LlaUhU8lF7DEtRLjT-dEaPcFPVZnREbwsEyYU6A/s1600/bklyn+Ctown"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478194830187331682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 225px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZpiergEGpKgHBC1aqM22AcruGsak6b587DX6ifUFipVo24IkKP5YzGz871x32AguIEinDk1IACJqNbkrwx_5cp1RNVfeB16jPAXkF1LlaUhU8lF7DEtRLjT-dEaPcFPVZnREbwsEyYU6A/s400/bklyn+Ctown" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I’m not going to spend a lot of time on Brooklyn’s Sunset Park Chinatown because, frankly, I found the streets filthy and, for the most part, the restaurants uninviting. As Dave later noted, if Flushing’s Chinatown bears a resemblance to Hong Kong, Brooklyn’s enclave is closer to a provincial city. There are the usual little markets offering giant oozy clams and live crabs and exotic (to us) fruits and vegetables, and a branch of the Hong Kong Market described in an earlier blog, but this one is much less spic’n’span and has the woeful down-at-the-heels ambience of a struggling food co-op.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>On our first trip, we stop at a tiny dumpling house off 8th Avenue (it is called, simply, “Dumpling House”) for Chinese vegetables and pork fried dumplings (four for $1) and a sesame pancake with beef ($2). With a couple of diet Cokes, you have a five-dollar lunch for two, and it’s reasonably tasty if n<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9rmTOIDKGcj-mfWSwcdfuLlTpKtMkeyuiz6eFmhu0Junir4Krdae-gL780FFO_h_EOeNKh66smIOI16_phLAwbWIFdyNLRsDfNTsaM91bXvUMtsHxuIZi81daMxcI7k4XEStNj2i6LQp/s1600/nyonya+interior"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478195578340134354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 181px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9rmTOIDKGcj-mfWSwcdfuLlTpKtMkeyuiz6eFmhu0Junir4Krdae-gL780FFO_h_EOeNKh66smIOI16_phLAwbWIFdyNLRsDfNTsaM91bXvUMtsHxuIZi81daMxcI7k4XEStNj2i6LQp/s320/nyonya+interior" border="0" /></a>ot particularly inspired.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>On a return visit, we decide to try a Malaysian restaurant, Nyonya, whose spare bamboo décor vaguely conjures up a tree house in Southeast Asia. We order a bunch of appetizers at random: achat (picked vegetables); chicken satay; and something called Nyonya lobak, which is a trio of fried spiced pork rolls, fried tofu, and a fried shrimp pancakes, served with hoisin and plum sauces. Everything is superb, especially washed down with a couple of Tsingtao beers, and when we see puffy pancakes floating<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib-qO5rt1AlIm5WLRaUMz_9VP964OVL87qGP9GauTP6YGE0w0hyphenhyphen1HULdozWq_UNJ68CjIc7cFBFkFCK3cYZgBYyCYj0XkbYwwH_8VvW1j4i49M6es7ddxlEncLBlNMEus8Mtfy1tJEPoNZ/s1600/malaysian+restaurant"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478198479963571634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 181px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib-qO5rt1AlIm5WLRaUMz_9VP964OVL87qGP9GauTP6YGE0w0hyphenhyphen1HULdozWq_UNJ68CjIc7cFBFkFCK3cYZgBYyCYj0XkbYwwH_8VvW1j4i49M6es7ddxlEncLBlNMEus8Mtfy1tJEPoNZ/s320/malaysian+restaurant" border="0" /></a> by on their way to other diners, we ord<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEw5Ro-hc1Dl_ZFyhqi6sda2vfo0ko_yvo-zH9E1NQeN_8Lnd5UMTltCIiOmU3tV-V9FsPjLwG73S3YSaDHPCK5Kjf3StRHEJpoP4P1KCyu7I6BaJkfo426h9vvQG3VlNZL49CKFlMAbOq/s1600/malaysian+restaurant"></a>er one of those too. Known here as roti canai, these are somewhat like Indian poori, and come with a soupy curried chicken dipping sauce. You eat the thing by tearing off big chunks and scooping up the gravy, a messy but satisfying carb-and-grease delivery system.<br /></div><br /><div>The restaurant rapidly fills up with locals, among them a family with three adorable and charming small daughters, and I realize once again that half the fun of Asian restaurants is watching these wonderful groups, often encompassing many generations, enjoying themselves in a way I’ll bet Anna Wintour never does at the Four Seasons.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UIO_01kknkFbx4ONgVRwAMJ-dPxNu8vrRVfDbmbN3i8iuKS0FttBb2uP2mxWUUNdscB1JtHDtiQnTaCVw9zfeCB2ahT-9y5zOWYkYGD-kOQaPdxOfmKzjWKARFNVmswCMU61bn9LIIGg/s1600/Brooklyn+adorable+kid.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478196710305461954" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 181px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UIO_01kknkFbx4ONgVRwAMJ-dPxNu8vrRVfDbmbN3i8iuKS0FttBb2uP2mxWUUNdscB1JtHDtiQnTaCVw9zfeCB2ahT-9y5zOWYkYGD-kOQaPdxOfmKzjWKARFNVmswCMU61bn9LIIGg/s320/Brooklyn+adorable+kid.JPG" border="0" /></a>On a return visit with a date a couple of weeks later, I’m not quite as smitten. We order a whole red snapper in a Thai sauce, a bland fish overwhelmed by the red-hot preparation, and a dish of sautéed frogs with ginger and scallion. I’m expecting a kickline of delicate little joints like you get when you order frogs’ legs in a French restaurant, but these are hacked into bits with annoying bones that have to be plucked out with each mouthful.<br /><br />If Malaysian food appeals to you, my suggestion is to try the Nyonya branch in Manhattan’s Little Italy: <a href="http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/nyonya03/">http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/nyonya03/</a><br /><br /></div><br /><div>Of course, if you’re traveling with Dave, you’ll always see some interesting sights, such as this guy making hand-pulled noodles, so the trip is never totally a waste.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4u_-hDc0PQCebrDLhbYA4hq2MA2OmTZl_90voLXraUw75bC48jm27qLlzqZowqB-CEjxtyMF-Tk0CRyHLEHYaXWIUd254Z5gmDbdXw_klmzQWGFHltKrQ_VcH13xw5NPyTb42UCZ9z_cx/s1600/noodle+man"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478197640329702226" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4u_-hDc0PQCebrDLhbYA4hq2MA2OmTZl_90voLXraUw75bC48jm27qLlzqZowqB-CEjxtyMF-Tk0CRyHLEHYaXWIUd254Z5gmDbdXw_klmzQWGFHltKrQ_VcH13xw5NPyTb42UCZ9z_cx/s320/noodle+man" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><strong>IF YOU MUST VISIT: Easiest access if via the N train from Times Square to 8th Avenue in Brooklyn. Trip time averages 40 minutes. </strong></div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-41888301024871386412010-05-09T09:58:00.000-07:002010-05-15T10:00:08.521-07:00The End of the Silkie Chicken<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVsXJGFJk11ZW2tGW2eQ0djE24e9Kn7j-PTZ7Zc7LAGDQIkqv_qHnHuHZvP7_7wyK_fLNH6X7aoIjVJNl0ERj50Ek7N_a26OGk8V08xu_A5h4PIB9tcLO2jrkwEC5vRTaCkJPjysiaIRH/s1600/silkie+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469319803732900770" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 275px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVsXJGFJk11ZW2tGW2eQ0djE24e9Kn7j-PTZ7Zc7LAGDQIkqv_qHnHuHZvP7_7wyK_fLNH6X7aoIjVJNl0ERj50Ek7N_a26OGk8V08xu_A5h4PIB9tcLO2jrkwEC5vRTaCkJPjysiaIRH/s320/silkie+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469319681185607170" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 295px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 313px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAVfKubCfPpNgiudG0Kv8BV5cgtFAb34ug5HUfcLBg8wFK1Z_y0my77zJTxjSiyvxAXYlrxLYlfs66_8QVHpyjVWhbsK-ucKiKMLKIht13TuMfxCLoI2jmyjE3BjJlEzMCN2sGKPm97AW/s320/silkie+1.jpg" border="0" /> <div>Fully feathered, the silkie chicken is the Mae West of birds. Seemingly plump in all the right places, with a comely posterior <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0H7ZLzqccNn4pGE8ljs6-FdpINSzyPtgvUQmkUiK4Hwzz0DC-P_4QOXMZJUvni1BirU71gjJ5bU_7cs_R_a_X0z9RPJQ2RFOqHs25KokS15H_HAwUrwz6S6fm35k2Gn5GiC9OYABk7ron/s1600/silkie+2.jpg"></a>and platinum charm, she looks like something you’d want to take to bed, a cute and cuddly barnyard siren.<br /><br />Stripped of her plumage, however, the silkie is a whole ‘nother creature, as I have described in previous posts. But I wasn’t prepared for further surprises when I unwrapped the package. A long scrawny neck dangled downward, ending in a sorry head with sadly cartoonish dead eyes. I let out a cartoonish “<em>Eeeek</em>!” Further investigation uncovered a pair of long legs ending in clawed feet (yeah, I know, what did I expect? cloven hooves? puppy paws?)<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqK4PGsstpDXqTT7fNU7iNC-PNVQO_ZWIrlTdMIlM3jOPCjKZoYtqOo9N-x3IUFXDpYoP89mNVSMJAIAN7CV8JwIk0uyxRBl0ksKOrPs8OyT3AbpnCDUHQSq_lfhQKKd0svu1_4CIggrY/s1600/silkie+1.jpg"></a><br />The chicken looked absurdly prehistoric, like an appetizer for a pterodactyl.<br /><br />Then came hacking the little monster into six parts (breasts, wings, thighs), as called for in the recipe I’d copped from the Web, hoping it might eventually look something like this:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5NizNE_VuKmVncjb02z-6u6XbMQ793v9CoOmdy9Yjmz1hogm1CN_au5iKWonaMtUko_Mm8fl8vB_QangW2PWnwjWPs8BzGQ7ahpVgclZrMnLqbvbmb5FzSlCRoNH7gSD41xqqtm96wRvr/s1600/Times+chicken.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469316382866913458" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 160px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5NizNE_VuKmVncjb02z-6u6XbMQ793v9CoOmdy9Yjmz1hogm1CN_au5iKWonaMtUko_Mm8fl8vB_QangW2PWnwjWPs8BzGQ7ahpVgclZrMnLqbvbmb5FzSlCRoNH7gSD41xqqtm96wRvr/s320/Times+chicken.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />But no way can this creature be reduced to more than four parts. I had to settle for lopping off the legs and, with a mighty whack of a chef’s knife, splitting the breast in two. The whole experience was almost enough to convert me to a vegan diet on the spot.<br /><br />Fortunately, for backup, I’d bought some organic chicken thighs, presuming those might turn out to be a good deal more edible. I’m going to spare you the recipe, because no one should have to go through this kind of ordeal unless your doctor swears the goddamn thing will cure back pain, shingles, and myopia (as well as the aforementioned premature ejaculation).<br /><br />Suffice it to say, that you brown the bird, then cook it with onions, ginger, garlic, oyster sauce, soy sauce, sherry, and a few other things. I tried a little of the meat, which turns gray after slow simmering. It wasn’t all that bad, but if you insist on serving up such a thing, save it for obnoxious houseguests.</div><div></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong> </div><div> </div><div><strong>The link to the recipe, proffered with hesitation</strong>: <a href="http://www.helium.com/items/944193-recipes-braised-silkie-chicken-with-shallot-and-onion">http://www.helium.com/items/944193-recipes-braised-silkie-chicken-with-shallot-and-onion</a> I highly recommend using organic chicken thighs and adding a few sauteed vegetables at the end, such as peppers, snow peas, and/or broccoli.</div><div></div><div></div></div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-74786074817189664622010-04-29T11:58:00.000-07:002010-05-15T10:01:06.675-07:00A la recherche du poulet de pourpre<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1wnSOaaI6iW2Oo-H3BUFFCDA7-5ymws092-e4fIwN9fuaf7uG6XztR2lRzg7IC-y4E39hMxwXJc9kDNrooXu147lWfa2E1Gf3EY_YyUic3x3s7G2D6cN7PMVxXmdr-s4Y80407eE5Oh9S/s1600/TheSovereign.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466308834054564338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 260px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1wnSOaaI6iW2Oo-H3BUFFCDA7-5ymws092-e4fIwN9fuaf7uG6XztR2lRzg7IC-y4E39hMxwXJc9kDNrooXu147lWfa2E1Gf3EY_YyUic3x3s7G2D6cN7PMVxXmdr-s4Y80407eE5Oh9S/s400/TheSovereign.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div>My friend Barbara Rachko, a wonderful artist whose work <em>The</em> <em>Sovereign</em> is featured above, is looking a little nervous as she waits for me on the Grand Central platform for the Number 7.<br /><br />“Got your shots? Got your passport?” I inquire.<br /><br />She nods, biting her lip.<br /><br />“Then you’re going to be just fine.”<br /><br />But the first index of our provincialism as Manhattanites is that we can’t figure out which train is an express, which a local. The one with the green circle around the number, or the red diamond? So we wind up on the local, and as we journey deeper into Queens, past the still-gleaming Unisphere, Barbara confesses, “You know I haven’t been out here since the 1964 World’s Fair.”<br /><br />“Pretty pathetic,” I say. “And as you’re aware even diehard art-lovers had a hard time making the trip when MoMA’s temporary outpost was just a few stops away from Grand Central.”<br /><br />We are returning to Flushing’s Chinatown--while Dave is cruising off the coast of Spain--to collect one of those damned silkie chickens for me and to try a more “upscale” restaurant culled from the Internet. I have found a recipe for the poor bruised-looking bird (one that promises to cure premature ejaculation, which is fortunately not one of my complaints at the moment), and I want to see how it tastes in a quasi-traditional Chinese recipe (the one I found calls for oyster and hoisin sauces, fresh ginger, soy sauce, and so on). But I can’t resist adding some frozen dumplings, Chinese sausage, ginger tea, oyster mushrooms, and other exotic stuff to my basket. I’m a little miffed that a scrawny little bird sells for $8.50, about the price of a small organ<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuMlZ5uE01ZiAoZ71Ik9f84o2q2eFrzBnNZh2SOPDK8VTVLyrTCJ1NYv0dWsQQVCvMU7Qs1wOcyBdoaFSnxVInVsW4fGCwbvWzyixKSqFUkulIzedjTN4cAKxh0E4mxuDsqiABIGeTKBh/s1600/Chinese+sausage.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466309705998213282" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuMlZ5uE01ZiAoZ71Ik9f84o2q2eFrzBnNZh2SOPDK8VTVLyrTCJ1NYv0dWsQQVCvMU7Qs1wOcyBdoaFSnxVInVsW4fGCwbvWzyixKSqFUkulIzedjTN4cAKxh0E4mxuDsqiABIGeTKBh/s320/Chinese+sausage.JPG" border="0" /></a>ic chicken or a cardboard Perdue roaster, but I figure it must have a very splendid taste or unusually fine medicinal qualities.<br /><br />After making a few inquiries, we find the restaurant Spicy & Tasty (39-07 Prince Street, just a couple of blocks from the subway stop), and promptly get a nice big table toward the back and a pot of steaming tea. The menu has a lot of stuff you are not going to find in Manhattan (or Teaneck, for that matter): spicy pork kidney, diced rabbit with red chili sauce, duck feet with wasabi, duck tongue with basil, pork liver with spinach soup, and something called “Amazing Belt Fish.” But we are timid and decide on spare ribs, duck with green soy beans in spicy sauce, and sautéed shrimp Chengdu style.<br /><br />“No ribs,” says the waitress. “Only on weekends.” She taps her pencil at the menu and virtually commands, “You try this.” It’s sliced pork with garlic sauce, and when it arrives it looks an awful lot like eggplant swimming in chili oil, with chopped scallions, peanuts, and garlic on top. It is surprisingly good, though rather fatty, almost like thin slabs of bacon. (Neither of us was smart enough to bring a camera on this trip, so you’ll have to make do with descriptions.)<br /><br />The shrimp is spectacular, some of the best I’ve ever had—big, plump, pink, and tender—perfectly cooked and tossed with whole peanuts, onions, and green pepper. The duck has a subtle, smoky flavor, but it’s studded with bones and looks to be hacked mostly from the backbone and legs.<br /><br />By the time our main courses arrive, the place has filled up, mostly with local families. One, made up of at least three generations, is passing a baby around like a sack of potatoes, and he’s loving it, grinning and giggling up a storm.<br /><br />“Ever notice how other cultures seem to have a better time with their kids when they eat out?” I ask.<br /><br />“Maybe it’s why white babies cry a lot,” says Barbara. “The adults don’t really include them in the festivities.”<br /><br />“Unless you strap one to your chest and take it out on the campaign trail.”<br /><br />The tab for two, with a couple of Tsingtao beers, comes to about $40, and there is plenty of leftover duck for Barbara’s lunch the next day.<br /><br />Having determined that the red diamond means an express train, we look for one on the way back, and I realize we must be a strange sight—a couple of tall, bewildered-looking blondes carrying plastic bags stuffed with Chinese groceries. An MTA employee asks if we’re lost and then informs us that there are no express trains after rush hour, but I don’t care. I’ve got my silkie chicken. I have plans. I’m happy. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466315300973894338" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 336px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 385px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCmf9OyLRKzgb8hITJrGfUPa5YhQYT23dnYcDL1zAVOleYm15L1B-_yK3d42lB1WQ8QIr7ytmJKFvRKiETJ3IR-PTs8Cyj_wLLln_-TFiA7p5ky88UK7z76dYePN_3WtQ8P-d8S0zEgmGh/s320/chinatown+street.JPG" border="0" /> <div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>IF YOU GO</strong>: <em>The #7 train takes about 20 to 30 minutes to get from Grand Central to Main Street Flushing. The Hong Kong Market is at 3711 Main Street, across from the Anglican church and inside a little mall of shops. Spicy & Tasty Restaurant is at 39-07 Prince Street, about two blocks from the Main Street subway stop.</em></span></div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-28009534368980807962010-04-23T09:05:00.000-07:002010-05-01T08:16:48.508-07:00Warning: This post not suitable for the squeamish or tender-hearted<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir4bLDIAqIfH6zCj94qAQq08qdUFUQEiuyTnDM9SQemT9a80m2nYnljXDFlGo1ihdbkWcnoYhbPdkdQ4V9q8Wj_-WRwPBxnU4eahNRK9jx8qW_HtiCqJFgyWId0sTNWOGuYMoxFrYtLcVd/s1600/L1040882.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463379918559220834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir4bLDIAqIfH6zCj94qAQq08qdUFUQEiuyTnDM9SQemT9a80m2nYnljXDFlGo1ihdbkWcnoYhbPdkdQ4V9q8Wj_-WRwPBxnU4eahNRK9jx8qW_HtiCqJFgyWId0sTNWOGuYMoxFrYtLcVd/s400/L1040882.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>It would be a stretch and possibly a kind of blasphemy to Italophiles everywhere to compare Flushing’s Chinatown with Venice, but one of the charms of this area is how easy it is to step into a doorway and stumble upon a whole ‘nother world, like making a turn into a narrow little <em>calle </em>in the <em>Serenissima</em> and suddenly encountering a sun-struck square with a plashing fountain….<br /><br />But enough with the high-toned comparison. The short version is that we took a few steps inside a street-level mall and came upon the Hong Kong Supermarket (37-11 Main Street, near 37th Avenue), the Chinese answer to Whole Foods. Immediately my heart commenced to pound: foreign food markets (as I guess I made clear several posts ago) are one of my favorite things on earth. I have swooned over bottled ratatouille in Dordogne, creamed in my jeans for six kinds of packaged <em>penne </em>in Bologna, and nearly lost it over frozen rabbit in Provence.<br /><br />We head almost instinctively toward the poultry and meat counters, bypassing stacks and stacks of packaged Asian cookies and crackers. And what wondrous goods await: chicken and duck feet, beef spleen, quail, whole duck, pigs’ snouts (yes, with rosy nostrils intact!), and a peculiar deep purple bird known as a silkie chicken, a scrawny sack of bones with a skin that somewhat resembles an eggplant with goosebumps.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74xLFiOq19NGOA-CuU1gW4vnFDRuwe5XLfu3VnP-inILJdrRwQmLFgetbgpS_5_MxVekgBnBYlkw6oOzRNamKIHBct1EvcZOPRR29I5SY8teyOOL_Gb0jaarJq2kIfCyExISN_X4SE2Nm/s1600/silky+chickens.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463374315165422642" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74xLFiOq19NGOA-CuU1gW4vnFDRuwe5XLfu3VnP-inILJdrRwQmLFgetbgpS_5_MxVekgBnBYlkw6oOzRNamKIHBct1EvcZOPRR29I5SY8teyOOL_Gb0jaarJq2kIfCyExISN_X4SE2Nm/s320/silky+chickens.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Another shopper notices me examining the package (and Dave snapping away) and begins to sing its praises. “Very good for arthritis, chills, colds.”<br /><br />I ask how to cook it.<br /><br />“You make soup out of it,” she tells me. “Add vegetables, noodles. A little whiskey.”<br /><br />“Whiskey?”<br /><br />“Yes, or wine, beer….whatever you have on hand.” She nods her head, smiling and smiling.<br /><br />We forgo the chicken for this trip, but I have to admit that I’m intrigued.<br /><br />At the end of the aisle we encounter the seafood section, possibly one of the finest in town, if you are a connoisseur of fresh fish, fish still alive in tanks, snails, giant and razor clams….<em>and oh no! oh no! cover the little ones’ eyes! Live frogs and turtles!</em> Stacked in buckets, flailing on their backs, tiny feet pumping, sharp <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOaSdbb-KzswPUhVJ4o-yqKNE1df1x2U7JNgWDyofgG1IBDeHEtkPIQmpcSTV40WxfEJdnNBG7Tl5XNljP1uxCj6-lQcr4vrmXfbxWY7EkLUfcL3-POJGMnx3IO7BF6QGsG4GehHV72pxf/s1600/frogs+and+turtles.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463376090067656834" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOaSdbb-KzswPUhVJ4o-yqKNE1df1x2U7JNgWDyofgG1IBDeHEtkPIQmpcSTV40WxfEJdnNBG7Tl5XNljP1uxCj6-lQcr4vrmXfbxWY7EkLUfcL3-POJGMnx3IO7BF6QGsG4GehHV72pxf/s320/frogs+and+turtles.JPG" border="0" /></a>tongues darting….It’s almost a little too much when a friendly eel pokes its head from a tank just in time for Dave to get a shot. Walt Disney would be rolling in his grave.<br /><br />I scurry for safety toward the frozen food se<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio8s729bb7DTWdea6f4kTK5CoSQzcFv3wwwjnEiMF6HIou25GIqPmbmlDgqYlVg1dIwuDut9ekdsF_9SkYYhCDGlsn0UMrvSRd3jasQtxnF0nKvP7DxP6az0h1ngdusvFGKX4FetQNHGgz/s1600/eel.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463376766002099170" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio8s729bb7DTWdea6f4kTK5CoSQzcFv3wwwjnEiMF6HIou25GIqPmbmlDgqYlVg1dIwuDut9ekdsF_9SkYYhCDGlsn0UMrvSRd3jasQtxnF0nKvP7DxP6az0h1ngdusvFGKX4FetQNHGgz/s320/eel.JPG" border="0" /></a>ction, where you will find about 25 different kinds of dumplings, at least, along with many varieties of egg rolls, spring rolls, noodles. This is also the place for medicinal tea. I could not begin to count the different varieties. A tea for pimples, one for cramps, another for menopause, tea for your liver and stomach, tea for your cheating shit-brained husband….a tea to cure whatever ails you. And all very reasonably priced, generally less than three or four bucks for a box of 25 bags.<br /><br />And let’s end in the produce section, where bitter melon, all manner of mushrooms, lychee clusters, bok choy, lemongrass, long beans, yam and bean leaf, tong ho, taro root, and other exotic vegetables jostle their American cousins, and all at very good prices (like $3.99 for a <em>quart</em> of strawberries, the same brand as is sold in my local d’Agostino at $3.79 a pint, or $1.99 for a one-pound bag of small shallots).<br /><br />As we exit this post and the market itself, we move into the high-priced real estate: abalone, scallops, stomach (of what we could not find out), crocodile, and something called Fish Sharles at up to $289 pound. It's hard to discover what this stuff is for (but you can always try googling), since it seems almost no one but an occasional shopper speaks much English.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463378607349763826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 225px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVGSHDuloXJQPc3SL_5hGskcPiVk5ErMkG4U2wFeLOA69bjFBSjTanTGvw4avfvMBiO6J_a65iW5mbGNWC4GDeVqBspLhThOUmec6eHBXUYAKUQNJ-6QqrIr5-v0qf4j2nwca-6OCjuVXN/s400/dried+croc.JPG" border="0" /><br />If you are a food-store freak, the Hong Kong Supermarket is well worth the half-hour trip from Grand Central on the #7. (I recommend an afternoon of shopping, followed by a drink at the Sheraton….or fortify yourself with lunch at the Golden Mall and head over to the market.)<br /><br />I will be back. That night I dreamt of silkie chickens simmering in a bourbon-laced stew. </div><br /><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_uz5CCkW-eTcQios26XTwzvUTZFum0yUrOerKe2RlfuF2nvpjFflK5ctebOck_V4DDdxAbdyEk8cUQumcsr2NQDk1QQ8mJDRzsme4q1J6IHJbx4AzYaxkTii15vXaeDfJfrtiGRwg_muH/s1600/noodle+woman.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466320441491429282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_uz5CCkW-eTcQios26XTwzvUTZFum0yUrOerKe2RlfuF2nvpjFflK5ctebOck_V4DDdxAbdyEk8cUQumcsr2NQDk1QQ8mJDRzsme4q1J6IHJbx4AzYaxkTii15vXaeDfJfrtiGRwg_muH/s320/noodle+woman.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">IF YOU GO: Take the #7 train from Grand Central. The ride is 20 to 30 minutes, depending on whether you catch the express (which runs only during rush hour). The Hong Kong Market is at 3711 Main Street, inside the mall, and about two blocks from the subway stop.<br /></span></strong><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-87408636956754999022010-04-07T14:57:00.000-07:002010-05-01T08:45:26.722-07:00Down the Rabbit Hole<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHMgyiDWw__jJu-gr_oPnC_5fewQ4k428R_nJwxuZX5s9l0AwLUmiAmIeXoqd4LgG2Gpj5MkkWFtwxYkVjgUO_13ZlM5z7_PxvCrv37CAN0TRSaue-KLVXEZvfeJszZVpQNK_Rj2AqdmJX/s1600/sorting+jewels.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457519791377065026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHMgyiDWw__jJu-gr_oPnC_5fewQ4k428R_nJwxuZX5s9l0AwLUmiAmIeXoqd4LgG2Gpj5MkkWFtwxYkVjgUO_13ZlM5z7_PxvCrv37CAN0TRSaue-KLVXEZvfeJszZVpQNK_Rj2AqdmJX/s400/sorting+jewels.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>We wander aimlessly around the ‘hood, past a little shop where a woman appears to be giving a man a massage around the eye sockets (undoubtedly good for migraines), a landmarked Anglican church with services in Chinese, and stores selling mysterious dried stuff in big glass jars. Along Main Street are several inviting pastry emporiums, where the art of French confection seems to have gained a major foothold (maybe because Asian desserts are so uninspired?).<br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxS9l4zmxe3cBuUIW-28ntfITzMNcJ6Gw0Ys7Z_Vpkj6kT2LG6uyxd5bmdGRI8TZsKtd_m_WkgG-kNjWiFx_TpGYgZEGGRKmpL1BK-TDaGM66OuH_-Y4DELls2wE_oDxSyyt6xz6cgMk4/s1600/eye+massage.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457523387820679298" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 267px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxS9l4zmxe3cBuUIW-28ntfITzMNcJ6Gw0Ys7Z_Vpkj6kT2LG6uyxd5bmdGRI8TZsKtd_m_WkgG-kNjWiFx_TpGYgZEGGRKmpL1BK-TDaGM66OuH_-Y4DELls2wE_oDxSyyt6xz6cgMk4/s400/eye+massage.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Then, suddenly, thinking we have come across another indoor mall, we are plunged into a hotel, the Chinatown Sheraton, as sleek and elegant as any high-end hostelry in Hong Kong. Upscale stores occupy one level, whose balcony overlooks the restaurant and lobby. Inside one, a girl is examining precious stones using chopsticks. There’s a dark and welcoming bar, leading me to wonder how well a martini would sit on top of a lamb burger, and spotlit objets d’art which look, to this eye at least, like they might be genuine collector’s items.<br /></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImfP677gqHf4kfhf96X3rEfeYqYlxxuMp1UMJVDirz9MNA9SaYsJhpZ94CkQtl07dozMfW4fUYAtJCuA8CehaURvSYVk-aoF4HPSIIuhM415T1lEooxxJnzd_mTknAZsTsAYRYnnNyAA8/s1600/statue+Sheraton.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457531345173622754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImfP677gqHf4kfhf96X3rEfeYqYlxxuMp1UMJVDirz9MNA9SaYsJhpZ94CkQtl07dozMfW4fUYAtJCuA8CehaURvSYVk-aoF4HPSIIuhM415T1lEooxxJnzd_mTknAZsTsAYRYnnNyAA8/s320/statue+Sheraton.JPG" border="0" /></a> “Who the hell would want to stay in the Flushing Chinatown Sheraton?” I ask Dave.<br /><br />“Beats me.”<br /><br />"I suppose if you’re a Chinese businessman, or maybe a family of tourists, you’re simply more comfortable staying in a neighborhood that feels like home.”<br /><br /><br /><br />The restaurant, which is designed around a big stone fireplace worthy of an Aspen ski lodge, also has immaculate restrooms, and I highly recommend the facilities if you’re tooling around the area (I have occasionally wondered if a Zagat’s guide to public restrooms in hotels and department stores would find an audience; I consider myself a connoisseur.)<br /><br /><br />I’d be happy to linger here, perched on a bar stool for an hour or so, but Dave is soon getting bored and restless. One look tells me what he is thinking: “Your pathetic love of alcohol and frivolity are what is leading to America’s demise as a major superpower.” And so we are off to do more serious food reconnaissance.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">IF YOU GO: Take the #7 train from Grand Central (or Times Square). Trip time: about half an hour. The Sheraton LaGuardia East Hotel is at 135-20 39th Avenue, a block and a half from the subway stop.</span></strong>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-91611029802462225582010-04-05T07:32:00.000-07:002010-04-07T15:32:40.430-07:00The Orient Local<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456676566157533282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbssGnMiIPlWWFCRJUUL6KKaiO6lzIhYq_oTxYNJP0mEO5S_vysL7kLnd6y5WSjV0_rAORSqsnb7cPv9yvVzYIJUJcyhckg1Sd1LdSOmS2-_BlaOEyyZt-ky5QGhi7TX-dcIjPJfx5ioRm/s400/L1040886.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div>Flushing’s Chinatown, the second largest Asian neighborhood in the city, is smack-dab at the end of the Number 7 line to Queens, about a half-hour ride from Grand Central to the Main Street stop.<br /><br />“This is just like being in Hong Kong,” marvels Dave, who visited that city many times in his previous incarnation as an international banker. We wend our way past shops selling everything from Chinese DVDs to glittery little tchotchkes to barbecued squid and ducks, whose darkened carcasses hang from hooks in the storefronts. En route people thrust flyers into our hands for <em>tuina</em> and acupuncture, as well as coupons for discounts at McDonald’s, of all places, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgn6qFwIcZptH0Wja-Gw8tFyOnYKPe3NAdsNENAWvfdNO5VFw-M2y6sRaF2TWRt4pSAq_-GbMvhnsfdChylJB-_rAy0ZtnUh2MK0j863HKDLvL2cOYGI01gXuwqpod7vcV1ThZAlW3T0U7/s1600/golden+mall.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456666266246368402" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgn6qFwIcZptH0Wja-Gw8tFyOnYKPe3NAdsNENAWvfdNO5VFw-M2y6sRaF2TWRt4pSAq_-GbMvhnsfdChylJB-_rAy0ZtnUh2MK0j863HKDLvL2cOYGI01gXuwqpod7vcV1ThZAlW3T0U7/s320/golden+mall.JPG" border="0" /></a>which I sincerely hope is having a hard time doing business in this district. Our goal is lunch at the Golden Mall, accessed via a nondescript stairway near the intersection of Main Street and 41st. Neither particularly “golden” nor technically a mall, this is an underground rabbit’s warren of modest eateries—small restaurants with booths and table service and open kitchens surrounded by five or six tables.<br /><br />The hard part is making up your mind<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptL_ylOLYlcKvCloscOATeanxqNjEolnd_rH3jWB5NvwicXFO8AmMEqEHXG1XTcou3qNIxcWx2zQAO29hC2i-BupgkQh_6jGwYc7tcDnnD5Spzuy-UDsCNi7246RUrq1EYgO-sEy1A370/s1600/lamb+burger.JPG"></a> where to eat. Dave, the Moscow magnet—he just can’t seem to get away from these guys—considers the suggestion of a burly Russian dining with his Chinese girlfriend that we try some braised pig’s feet or beef shank. But the blackened chunks of meat don’t look particularly appetizing to me, and we gravitate instead to stall number 36, where a Hispanic woman is in charge of the miniscule kitchen and a couple of empty tables are available.<br /></div><br /><div>The offerings are pictured on the wall, prices ranging from $2.50 to about $8 in price: lamb offal soup, tiger vegetables salad, buckwheat cold noodles, spic<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizt0wGM3MloVlsA9WXy4gh93FEJCk4isaoZZPdh_-gEoVHTkEpNsslsCd1_sPx0AxNML0hp1P9Ai4d3q3AC8lp1vMdwl4s1oK90BKtkgX1boKoJT9_wcrOsi25EJbYWfVsrtoLRs1Y99Gk/s1600/lamb+burger.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456674608934494226" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizt0wGM3MloVlsA9WXy4gh93FEJCk4isaoZZPdh_-gEoVHTkEpNsslsCd1_sPx0AxNML0hp1P9Ai4d3q3AC8lp1vMdwl4s1oK90BKtkgX1boKoJT9_wcrOsi25EJbYWfVsrtoLRs1Y99Gk/s320/lamb+burger.JPG" border="0" /></a>y pig’s blood salad, spicy and tingly beef noodles, hot and sour soup, and so on. We order lamb cumin burgers, spicy pork noodles, sour honeydaw tea, and a diet Coke (total tab $8.50). The lamb burgers, subtly and pungently spiced slices of meat inside a bun that is like a flaky pita, are so good I find myself having visceral cravings for them in the days to follow. The spicy pork noodles are a tangled stew of long, wide strands of pasta, generous chunks of pork, scallions, onions and bean sprouts. Fabulous.<br /></div><br /><div></div><div>As we are scarfing these down, I notice a pair of schoolgirls in gray and blue uniforms staring pointedly at Dave and giggling. </div><br /><div>"Dave,” I say, “I think those girls have the hots for you.”<br /></div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVD3-5MfkaM0t_VW-GHCgIJ7rUy8s3wjZ9lUErFfRRN1RUXV4zz0d5PgpWlkuUCZVyG89eY0Smr653MkDXJiJqSpxSXNy9eQesjq-a0_9oYsNCAn_8KWxe7tvoMgWU15qnXUbQUkS15hjQ/s1600/schoolgirl.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456680668437896226" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVD3-5MfkaM0t_VW-GHCgIJ7rUy8s3wjZ9lUErFfRRN1RUXV4zz0d5PgpWlkuUCZVyG89eY0Smr653MkDXJiJqSpxSXNy9eQesjq-a0_9oYsNCAn_8KWxe7tvoMgWU15qnXUbQUkS15hjQ/s320/schoolgirl.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Finally, one approaches and apologizes profusely for having splashed sauce on the back of his tweed jacket when we were in line. She offers to pay for the dry cleaning, which he, of course, refuses. </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwxWPEYuC6NV14KCxUbt1NGCqDpavuW4iseSlWUMHh0ZKR50oC0KKKZYM86-DYn91mWfZGPhRKVnKxtbjQ38nOioCcaSy0O5VVKJMSQAKlLRA1iXIZA94wwg3cZuv3diY4H26RQgkD4byi/s1600/Ripert.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456681632643564978" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwxWPEYuC6NV14KCxUbt1NGCqDpavuW4iseSlWUMHh0ZKR50oC0KKKZYM86-DYn91mWfZGPhRKVnKxtbjQ38nOioCcaSy0O5VVKJMSQAKlLRA1iXIZA94wwg3cZuv3diY4H26RQgkD4byi/s320/Ripert.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I am astounded. “My God, you would never have noticed this till later, if you noticed it at all. Can you imagine a little Park Avenue princess offering to pick up your dry-cleaning tab?”<br /></div><br /><div>Almost as surprising as this unexpected burst of adolescent altruism are the autographed photos tacked around the walls of Eric Ripert, executive chef of the four-star Manhattan seafood restaurant Le Bernardin, and Anthony Bourdain, host of <em>No Reservations</em> on the Travel Channel. Bourdain is perhaps not such a stretch as a visitor to this steaming underground foodfest, but the suave and dashingly gallic Eric Ripert? The last time I had dinner at Le Bernardin, about three years ago, a friend was treating me on my birthday, and the tab for two must easily have exceeded $300. Was he looking for inspiration or slumming with Bourdain? Or maybe he just got on the wrong train.<br /></div><br /><div>After a quick tour of the other Golden Mall restaurants (some of which specialize in hot-pot cooking at the table), we sample some bubble tea—which has a scoop of tapioca in it and strikes me as on a par with cotton candy for weird novelty foods—and head off to explore other parts of the neighborhood. </div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-33351313792494858272010-04-02T13:35:00.000-07:002010-05-05T14:33:36.993-07:00Bukharan Bazaar: The EndOur last (for the time being) adventure in Bukharan cuisine takes us to Taam Tov o<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpgai2A8L2Uy3xd72wEg7H0vrfEVN9K-RM2sg573OtrncN78zqB2wlq7bl4Kfbv-l9zdZQosUoArGOnGDbQ8hy4bWnI-hjSqN6beemeyJxYAE0hZPD-Z-mFj1TL4mOxNh_FIeHnEGb-CLH/s1600/TaamTovSign.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455643330692577570" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 214px; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpgai2A8L2Uy3xd72wEg7H0vrfEVN9K-RM2sg573OtrncN78zqB2wlq7bl4Kfbv-l9zdZQosUoArGOnGDbQ8hy4bWnI-hjSqN6beemeyJxYAE0hZPD-Z-mFj1TL4mOxNh_FIeHnEGb-CLH/s320/TaamTovSign.jpg" border="0" /></a>n West 47th Street in Manhattan. As I make my way toward Sixth Avenue, deep in the heart of the diamond district, people thrust flyers in my hand, offering to buy every ounce of precious metal on my body, and with gold at $1,140 an ounce and the economy still sinking, this may not be such a bad idea.<br /><br /><br />The restaurant’s on the third floor at 41 West 47th, and the easiest way to find it, at least on weekdays, may be to look for the guy in traditional Uzbek dress—a deep-blue tunic richly embroidered in gold—wearing a sandwich board advertising the house specialties: shish kebab, shavarma, “bbq steak,” and pilaf. At lunchtime, this is a bustling place, packed with construction workers, jewelers and gem dealers, and other neighborhood regulars, with nary a Yuppie in sight.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwkvN2nlPv_50FBuqqK1-W38nYEcMJ0iwIbdqFi6ZzePY3Uw1OQAX0svDj2eqYwSqfMd0UyqBtDokRQutXIJhEY9EmH6ILBwVs9OiOeDlY5C0b8hTTTq03GhBIpM6VIcgBAwTY-nnedyj/s1600/SandwichBoardmanoutsideofentrance.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455644778828967986" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwkvN2nlPv_50FBuqqK1-W38nYEcMJ0iwIbdqFi6ZzePY3Uw1OQAX0svDj2eqYwSqfMd0UyqBtDokRQutXIJhEY9EmH6ILBwVs9OiOeDlY5C0b8hTTTq03GhBIpM6VIcgBAwTY-nnedyj/s320/SandwichBoardmanoutsideofentrance.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The menu runs a by-now-familiar gamut of hummus and “borsch” to lagman soup and kebabs of lamb, beef, veal’s liver, or fish. Many of these are helpfully if primitively pictured on the menu, the different dishes arrayed around a central image of what looks to be either a peculiar delicacy from Carvel, with two scoops of ice cream on top, or a mummified umbrella stand. But no, Dave informs me, this thing called shvarma or shavarma is a sandwich-like wrap of shaved meat wrapped around a vertical spit and grilled for as long as a day, tenderized and kept juicy by chunks of fat tucked within.<br /><br /><br />Well, fine, but not for lunch, I think, watching big platters heaped with golden fries glide by. I’m drawn to a picture of stroganoff on the menu, stirred by memories of one of my suburban mother’s favorite 1960s party dishes. So we order that and stuffed cabbage and another plate full of pilaf and a couple of diet Cokes to wash it all down and keep the calorie count lower than the price of gold (though, we learn later, beer and wine are also available).<br /><br /><br />The stroganoff proves disappointing: tender strips of beef in a tomato-based sauce (my mother always added sour cream to hers). It’s sadly short on oomph. Dave claims the Afghan versions he’s sampled in Kabul<strong></strong> are considerably more robust and spicier. The stuffed cabbage, though, is hearty and satisfying, and the pilaf, laced with meat I can’t identify but the waitress says is chicken, is a tantalizing mélange of grains spiked with cumin, cardamom, and cloves.<br /><br /><br />The three generous entrées run up a tab of about $10 each, and with gusto but some embarrassment we polish off almost everything put in front of us, including the “cake of the day,” a kind of doughy croissant wrapped around a chopped walnut filling ($3 for two).<br /><br />With its blue-plastic tablecloths, Taam Tov bears more of a resemblance to a roadside eatery on some back-roads blue highway rather than a midtown lunch joint. But one of its more curious features is a terrace overlooking a construction site, and because it’s a bright sunny day, several people move outdoors. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfA2M9TbM5Uw0rsA47rJlwXQIYFlPZ7mKuk8XXgRbzHleTUZU3ttN6g7RZ1Vcf_rupNHshKCBofy4Zrf5m89I1ZfBthiRZCgZ6dgGJ81WKxTD2bjaKVMzntry6tYKEPhd65D-1u6ViWR0R/s1600/TaamTovTerrace.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455645733724732034" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfA2M9TbM5Uw0rsA47rJlwXQIYFlPZ7mKuk8XXgRbzHleTUZU3ttN6g7RZ1Vcf_rupNHshKCBofy4Zrf5m89I1ZfBthiRZCgZ6dgGJ81WKxTD2bjaKVMzntry6tYKEPhd65D-1u6ViWR0R/s320/TaamTovTerrace.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />“Hey, Dave,” I say, “imagine this scenario: You’ve just bought your fiancée a knockout engagement ring in one of the stores around here and you bring her to Taam Tov for a romantic feast on the balcony. How do you think that would play out?”<br /><br /><br />Dave gives me a look. And then changes the subject by popping a sprig of parsley in his mouth. “At least you know you can eat the greens here.”<br /><br /><br />“What do you mean?”<br /><br /><br />“In Afghanistan, they use night soil as fertilizer. You don’t want to have much to do with vegetables. Sometimes they wash carrots in the ditches, because that’s the only water available. They dump them from bags on the donkey and then jump up and down on them to wash off the dirt.”<br /><br />I give Dave a look.<br /><br /><br />“We once saw a skit in which the lead character runs around wailing, ‘Abdul, why do my carrots taste of feet?’”<br /><br /><br />Yeah, well. That’s in Afghanistan. The food here is hearty, if not inspired, and if you consider that you can get a steaming bowl of shurpa (beef) or lagman (noodles, beef, veggies) or a big salad plus a soda or Israeli fruit juice for about the price of lunch at th<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgtTP4wPSHK4YwrsKfCQO3NimHW56xL2hd-Pmq0czacLVD2fiyhlXT21qvcsSmpKJ5gn68e4dRekfank08GZuTCiMsD1B8iyKnxpymFb5NUhVwezyo7SG92kLzCGd8bpCAjHZgkiess5nH/s1600/OwnerandSupervisingRabbi.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455646435413634434" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgtTP4wPSHK4YwrsKfCQO3NimHW56xL2hd-Pmq0czacLVD2fiyhlXT21qvcsSmpKJ5gn68e4dRekfank08GZuTCiMsD1B8iyKnxpymFb5NUhVwezyo7SG92kLzCGd8bpCAjHZgkiess5nH/s320/OwnerandSupervisingRabbi.jpg" border="0" /></a>e nearby McDonald’s, this is a steal. And a healthier one at that.<br /><br />And if you are concerned about whether the kitchen’s kosher, check out the well-fed rabbi guarding the door.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>IF YOU GO: Taam Tov is only a few blocks from Grand Central at 41 West 47th Street. Here's more info from New York magazine: </strong></span><a href="http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/taam_tov/">http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/taam_tov/</a>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-34168110514305325532010-03-31T13:43:00.000-07:002010-05-05T14:29:05.197-07:00Bukharan BrunchA quick follow-up to my Russian grocery shopping in Queens: The green beans are nothing like the ones favored by my dad. They are wonderfully crisp but so powerfully infused with garlic that just one will probably send your nearest and dearest scattering for the hills. Chopped fine and tossed in a salad, though, the beans made a piquant addition to some shredded romaine, arugula, and endive.<br /><br />I cooked the pierogies according to the package directions (thankfully, not in Russian), and stirred in some goat butter and Reggiano parmesan (we are nothing if not multicultural here at BYB). Yum. But I think goat butter is an acquired taste and might work better on dark pumpernickel or melba toast. The Moscow Biscuits are like airy vanilla-scented Zwieback, excellent dipped in coffee. Starbuck’s should stock them.<br /><br />And taramosalata is always splendid on water biscuits or as a dip for crudités. It’s also tasty at 3 a.m., using the time-honored two-fingered scoop.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Brunch Reading: Try to track down Janet Malcolm's spellbinding account of a murder trial in the Bukharan community in <em>The New Yorker</em>. Alas, you will have to be a subscriber to get the full story, but an abstract is available at </strong></span><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/05/03/100503fa_fact_malcolm"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/05/03/100503fa_fact_malcolm</strong></span></a>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-33607437535029068552010-03-30T06:47:00.000-07:002010-05-05T14:22:14.317-07:00The Great Bukharan Bazaar (Part 3)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbdoz7CEZWFeNedKbaBqr9iYEe_IAK4gUVI6BTBWpKO0QT_lIu-KhyphenhyphenMp9LTi8BoyH40-v1c-jsVexjwaFAZv3LSistmKSquGfnvJnd6jk_4xwUhJZYUR9W_qmpglQndO_X65qnYJ0m83O/s1600/Grocery+Store.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454454453608048930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 229px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbdoz7CEZWFeNedKbaBqr9iYEe_IAK4gUVI6BTBWpKO0QT_lIu-KhyphenhyphenMp9LTi8BoyH40-v1c-jsVexjwaFAZv3LSistmKSquGfnvJnd6jk_4xwUhJZYUR9W_qmpglQndO_X65qnYJ0m83O/s320/Grocery+Store.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5dxrDscQqAhoz2oiBUB9PfDioZ-3AdFwWubSI7ulefsX4Qi5WpOQ7mFA8yPcix5SC5DjWxxaaLYDXkSkefySNdZMudtdndCfe1YEmCZ8wqWF57OKajAAKeqopkHGxvn6K88TR01fvWfW/s1600/P1030865.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454451912962195810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5dxrDscQqAhoz2oiBUB9PfDioZ-3AdFwWubSI7ulefsX4Qi5WpOQ7mFA8yPcix5SC5DjWxxaaLYDXkSkefySNdZMudtdndCfe1YEmCZ8wqWF57OKajAAKeqopkHGxvn6K88TR01fvWfW/s320/P1030865.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">En route to Cheburechnaya on <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">63<sup>rd</sup> Drive</st1:address></st1:street>, we duck into a Russian grocery s</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">tore a few doors </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">away. Even on a full stomach, this is a spectacula</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">rly appetizing place, with rows of several kinds of smoked fish still</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> in their glittering skins (including Chi</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">lean sea bass, which I now curse myself for not buying), sausages and salamis, and othe</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">r c</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">ured delicacies displayed beh</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3EbPF16mSzthQH-BE_eBRJ882xFfuniybYBlKDT3rfuHBCHYvS6CtFff9Q4ll5JbfVRMw6V73NhUCMmKuWrda4CVkLkKOGRRGRdA2JsZmCoAZfZjeaUv4L_jjU27cf3Xq-SdscfX_nqlV/s1600/Meats.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454424810302435106" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3EbPF16mSzthQH-BE_eBRJ882xFfuniybYBlKDT3rfuHBCHYvS6CtFff9Q4ll5JbfVRMw6V73NhUCMmKuWrda4CVkLkKOGRRGRdA2JsZmCoAZfZjeaUv4L_jjU27cf3Xq-SdscfX_nqlV/s320/Meats.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">ind spotlessly clean glass. The </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">many-layered cakes a</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">re artfully frosted, and there</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> are enough exotic sweets for sale—wrapped candies, cookies, babka—to gladden the heart of my dentist. I am enc</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">hanted by all the goods with strange names and n</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">o English translation; it’s like getting suddenly parachuted into a Muscov</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">ite bodega.<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></span> </div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0); LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >I grab a few things that look familiar: frozen handmade </span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >pirogies, a slab of goat butter, a large jar of taramosalata (okay, technically this is a Gr</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >eek caviar spread, but here it is half the price of what you pay in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city>). And some that are not: a box o</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >f raisin-studded cookies called </span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >Moscow Biscuits and a jar of garlic-infused green beans, which I’m hoping will taste somewhat like the dilly beans my dad used to munch while mixing martinis. </span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >Total tab: $18. A</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >nd I can’t wait to come back for more.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0); LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >Cheburechnaya, our next stop, is named after the house specialty, deep-fr</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >ied tarts like oversized </span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >empanadas, filled with meat, pumpkin, mushrooms, or potatoes. The restau</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >rant is a cavernous and gleaming place of long tables and chrome fixtures</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >, clearly a favorite for family gatherings but nearly empty at eight </span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >p.m. on a weeknight. The photo-laden menu offers Bukharan specialties, priced per piece, </span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >so that </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7RyKUNwO55sfpjHf549SkE6qGa5n2CcCyBmMyHMZ1HeMza9qiNMIwa1QuHNDSTKBGOmRm51Npx1-d-1ZhmWDSI1MWMJCTZT0wG-LiaQxFcd2wV5PcseRThUQFYUDL8kOs3zJD1RL1MEf/s1600/cheb+menu+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454427619589581810" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 246px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7RyKUNwO55sfpjHf549SkE6qGa5n2CcCyBmMyHMZ1HeMza9qiNMIwa1QuHNDSTKBGOmRm51Npx1-d-1ZhmWDSI1MWMJCTZT0wG-LiaQxFcd2wV5PcseRThUQFYUDL8kOs3zJD1RL1MEf/s320/cheb+menu+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >one</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" > could </span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >easily assemble a tapas-like meal. There are quail, salmon, beef and veal keb</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >abs, about 12 types of salads, borscht, and any part of a lamb you might get a hankering for, including testicles and hearts. Also platters of Bukharan French f</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >ries that come generously dusted with minced garlic and parsley.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0); LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >Our waitress is a mere slip of a girl with a pale face and high wide cheekbones; with two </span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >pounds of makeup, she could easily model for <i>Vogue</i>. She tells us she’s from <st1:city st="on">Moscow</st1:city> and this is her third time in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">U.S.</st1:place></st1:country-region> “Are you ever going back?” Dave ask</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >s.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0); LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >“No. Never,” she says, emphatically shaking her head.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0); LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >We order a beef pilaf, grilled vegetables, and pumpki</span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >n chebureki, though I have no idea where all this stuff will fit and worry that I will soon be waddling around like Mrs. Khrushchev.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">The hug</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmRaZ2fytIyyKgR2CYX6hDsCCzg0b60YVXjnNwwhh3Do1rBAYcExl6DAb2DIGc8qCu40RXwl3K7bpxQ3zrq4GWvWe-o5Qp9HP94zUsoQklPvQduaJ-MsGuWFIid52PBIn2P_ONIo1jDzPp/s1600/Cheb+Rest+with+beer.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454433235625091170" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 242px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmRaZ2fytIyyKgR2CYX6hDsCCzg0b60YVXjnNwwhh3Do1rBAYcExl6DAb2DIGc8qCu40RXwl3K7bpxQ3zrq4GWvWe-o5Qp9HP94zUsoQklPvQduaJ-MsGuWFIid52PBIn2P_ONIo1jDzPp/s320/Cheb+Rest+with+beer.jpg" border="0" /></a></span><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >e mound of pilaf is studded with chickpeas, sliced onions, and chunks of beef and fragrant with spices like cumin and cinnamon. It’s hearty and flavorful and there’s enough for four, but we do what we can. The vegetables are nothing special, and the chebureki may be an acquired taste, but I wouldn’t mind a return trip to try different fillings. I would dearly love to sample the desserts, like lavz (triangular pastries made with walnuts and almonds) or the fried noodles with walnuts and honey, but there are limits to what even the Nordic track at the gym can fix.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><div><br /><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >A small birthday party is in full swing underneath a television set that broadcasts what looks like a Slavic version of MTV: gesturing provocatively, a full-figured brunette gyrates to a tune that’s thankfully inaudible at our table. Next to us is a group of middle-aged people, one wearing a cross between a babushka and a do-rag, and three handsome kids perhaps in their early 20s. I ask Dave if he thinks the older pair sitting side by side might be married.<o:p style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"></o:p></span><br /><br /><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >“Nah,” he says. “They can’t be. They’re talking to each other.” <o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 150%;font-size:14;" >Nonetheless, this looks like a great place for family celebrations, and I could easily see staging a reunion here and savoring the shocked looks on the faces of the Midwestern Bible thumpers in my father’s branch of the clan. What a concept.<o:p></o:p></span> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">IF YOU GO: Cheburechnaya is a few blocks from the 67th Road stop in Queens, via the F or V lines. The trip takes about 40 minutes from 42nd Street in Manhattan. Note that it is at 92-09 63rd DRIVE, not Avenue or Road, a few blocks from the subway entrance. The wonderful little grocery store is just a couple of doors away. </span></strong><a href="http://cheburechnaya.com/"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">http://cheburechnaya.com/</span></strong></a><o:p></o:p></div>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-38201912799432758532010-03-28T08:02:00.000-07:002010-05-05T14:10:14.148-07:00The Great Bukharan Bazaar (Part 2)<span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">We trudge back along slushy streets toward </span><?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:street style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)" st="on"><st1:address st="on">Queens Boulevard</st1:address></st1:street><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> in the hopes of finding a warm and convivial bar, though—knowing the prospects of watering holes may be scarce—we’ve come armed with firewater: a pint of Smirnoff’s for Dave, a flask of Jack Daniels for me. No bars in sight, and the first restaurant we decide to try, the </span><st1:city style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)" st="on"><st1:place st="on">Samarkand</st1:place></st1:city><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">, pointedly informs us in hand-lettered signs: NO ALCOHOL. Screw that.</span><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">So we go to Arzu near the subway, a modest little place whose name translates as “dream” and whose décor might best be described as Late ‘50s New Jersey Diner: turquoise plastic-covered chairs, formica tables, and grim fluorescent lighting. But the wa</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUO-_tPSvA77ICyTu0KdQOIazHulwn7_bj7oE37Tck1QRZ_sjivsHtp5khGWt3iLTDCnug0qDcSgbdorEGHZcPzUo9cy7brIO07T2MmOhYewlv5kwTfYficuD1OFbY07KZqis5HMsmUx9/s1600/P1030896.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453704611207586786" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUO-_tPSvA77ICyTu0KdQOIazHulwn7_bj7oE37Tck1QRZ_sjivsHtp5khGWt3iLTDCnug0qDcSgbdorEGHZcPzUo9cy7brIO07T2MmOhYewlv5kwTfYficuD1OFbY07KZqis5HMsmUx9/s320/P1030896.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">itress is a cheerful young woman who tells us she is here </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">from the city of <st1:city st="on">Ufa</st1:city>, 500 miles from <st1:city st="on">Moscow</st1:city> in <st1:place st="on">Bashkiria</st1:place>, to study business at a nearby school.</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">After she brings us cups for our libations, Dave orders a hearty soup made from what tastes like a rich meat stock, garnished with scallions and thick with chunks of lamb and lagman, long hand-pulled noodles that I later learn have evolved from Chinese lo-mein. The dumplings called Manti, with a sauce of tomato and garlic, will take a while to cook, as do the lamb-rib kebabs. Meanwhile Dave, whose command of Russian is wowing everyone within earshot, is corralled by a group of guys in the back and invited to share a liter of Johnny Walker Black and taste their special order of Kurma Lagman.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">The kebabs and a huge platter of dumplings arrive while he’s yukking it up with</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggYDcfG4gXo3-2ZspHtyqahg3Y-nlS8a3FCcEWBnIOSNycThWiN6-NigpYH2vpWkiI-EjUefgCWcIz-YMRYAlcTFUtQcQl52WuKuNZMSB5tkn-OOxo9NWtVlep2UnxHlUjQZs-LUI2YCFB/s1600/rabbis+blog+2+copy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453699513076563874" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 237px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggYDcfG4gXo3-2ZspHtyqahg3Y-nlS8a3FCcEWBnIOSNycThWiN6-NigpYH2vpWkiI-EjUefgCWcIz-YMRYAlcTFUtQcQl52WuKuNZMSB5tkn-OOxo9NWtVlep2UnxHlUjQZs-LUI2YCFB/s320/rabbis+blog+2+copy.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> the Zhivago gang. I’m too hungry to wait for him and so dive in while studying a copy of a local giveaway magazine, a kind of hybrid of </span><i style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">The Pennysaver</i><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> and </span><i style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Pravda.</i><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> I can’t understand a word of it, of course, but there are a zillion ads for doctors and dentists, realtors, florists, car services, photo studios, computer repair shops and</span><i style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">…rab</i><i style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">bis</i><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">? </span><i style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Why</i><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> </span><i style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">do rabbis have </i><i style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">to advertise? For an emergency bris or a last-minute bar mitzvah?</i><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> There are also stories here about Joe Stalin, Purim, and Russian history. (No ads for escort services, however, even though young Russian women are often drop-dead gorgeous. I guess this is a family paper, and one goes elsewhere for those pleasures.)</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Most poignant, though, are the death notices in the back—full pages with photos, some of the subjects wearing native garb or pictured earlier in life. They remind me of the photos posted in Venetian shops of neighbors who have died, and the tributes are somehow so much more touching than a black-and-white obit</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoPTFNzjzs9DuFVbOg1X24-5AYhWnx-18p0VcnezStX8WaVyVP5zbfuTSRXB4CpOI-sm7jnsjuw98Z4JsCja1SyeljpDhBNS6YG6rhe91O13b7bPpuQtOMYR3jcTAVkpMLWGsajmk1wZz/s1600/memorials+blog+2+copy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453759959968878050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 236px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoPTFNzjzs9DuFVbOg1X24-5AYhWnx-18p0VcnezStX8WaVyVP5zbfuTSRXB4CpOI-sm7jnsjuw98Z4JsCja1SyeljpDhBNS6YG6rhe91O13b7bPpuQtOMYR3jcTAVkpMLWGsajmk1wZz/s320/memorials+blog+2+copy.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">uary--a reminder that real people generally don’t find their way into the major newspapers at any point in their progress through the great schlep of life.</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0);font-size:0;" > </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><br /><br />The garlicky lamb-ribs are fabulous, and I grudgingly save a skewer for Dave, but I find the dumplings a little watery, like giant steamed wontons filled with—well, I’m sorry, but it looks somewhat like canned cat food and has less flavor (or so I imagine--my last feline, Sherman, was never big on sharing). You can’t complain that it’s not all terribly filling, however, and the tab for all this plus tea and crusty bread is less than $20.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Determined to tuck in another meal, Dave gets directions to a nearby kosher restaurant called Cheburechnaya. Before leaving, though, he spots his</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0);font-size:0;" > </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">watch-repair guy, who is clearly blown away at seeing him so far from </span><st1:street style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)" st="on"><st1:address st="on">14<sup>th</sup> Street</st1:address></st1:street><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"> in </span><st1:city style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)" st="on"><st1:place st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">. At least he doesn’t have a liter of Black Label, so we are able to make a relatively quick exit.</span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">IF YOU GO: The trip via the V or F train takes about 40 minutes from 42nd Street in Manhattan. Get off at the 67th Avenue stop. Arzu is just a few steps from the subway entrance. For more details, see the review in <em>New York</em> magazine: </span></strong><a href="http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/cafe-arzu/"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/cafe-arzu/</span></strong></a>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7340645746349511710.post-57358608837281225452010-03-26T08:11:00.000-07:002010-05-05T13:42:34.012-07:00The Great Bukharan Bazaar (Part 1)“This must be the longest subway ride I’ve ever taken to a foreign country,” remarks Dave as we are thundering along on the V train one chilly March afternoon.<br /><br />“How many nationalities do you think there are in this one car?” I ask.<br /><br />“I don’t know, maybe six or seven,” he says, glancing around at the brown, black, tan faces, stoic MTA commuters bundled up against the cold.<br /><br />“I’m guessing more like fifteen, and we may be the only white people here."<br /><br />We are on the initial leg of a foray into the Bukharan neighborhoods in New York. Our first stop: Forest Hills, Queens. Several weeks ago, in between shots of infused vodka at the Russian Samovar on West 52nd Street in Manhattan, it dawned on me that I really didn’t know squat about New York’s so-called ethnic communities—I hate the term “ethnic,” though it will have to suffice for now.<br /><br />It was January 7th, and Russian Christmas was in full swing: the pianist pounded mournful Slavic tunes, the owner quietly read Gogol at a table in the corner, sleek young Russian women with waists no bigger in circumference than blini wove their way between the tables en route to the loo.<br /><br />“Hey, Dave,” I said. “I want to know more about Russian life in New York. In fact, I’d like to know more about a lot of different communities in our fair city.” And thus was born this blog, which will weekly and maybe bi-weekly bring you chronicles and photos and posts about New York’s astonishing cultural diversity, and we do not mean Museum Mile on Fifth Avenue. Because Dave speaks fluent Russian—a language he learned as an undergraduate, studied further on the way to a Ph.D., and perfected during job postings in Moscow—we decide first to investigate New York’s Bukharans. He has a source of info on this community: his barber on 14th street and his watch repairman are from this group.<br /><br />One of the most isolated Jewish communities in the world, the Bukharans were scattered throughout Central Asia for 2000 years, with concentrations in the cities of Samarkand and Bukhara. They developed a special language scholars call Judeo-Persian, blending elements of Farsi and Hebrew, but also speak Russian. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, some 40,000 Bukharan Jews have settled in New York, arriving here from the former republics of Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan. And many of them are right here in Queens, in houses and apartments to either side of the broad and busy commercial strip along 108th Street.<br /><br />Our first glimpse of the neighborhood is a bummer. Just a bunch of what looks like project housing and unremarkable storefronts interspersed among Dunkin’ Donuts, Rite-Aids, liquor stores, and other predictable strip emporiums. But look more closely….there is a beauty-parlor-cum-jewelry store<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNpe8kNvcBBBIZajBWNG8DazzLr84wLxn8nN9PbRVmz6rlslBdwtENUyPka11cwPgDYZrz3LIqjqFOKdk0DCZjyY0mrWXgetDFe-1mRg9DvXEx7qPl5Qaz9LWI38Pevy-Zlh-eAALvSoje/s1600/dresses.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453040218597422562" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNpe8kNvcBBBIZajBWNG8DazzLr84wLxn8nN9PbRVmz6rlslBdwtENUyPka11cwPgDYZrz3LIqjqFOKdk0DCZjyY0mrWXgetDFe-1mRg9DvXEx7qPl5Qaz9LWI38Pevy-Zlh-eAALvSoje/s320/dresses.jpg" border="0" /></a>, where a fur-hatted matron examines a bauble through a loup; there are windows filled with evening dresses and bridal gowns that look like spun sugar; here’s a downstairs banquet hall, in the process of being readied for some special celebration. And the Russian grocery stores! Pure enchantment….but more on these later.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcifB7kMf3SIg0v-Ig_IWynL9xrdwC7Z1VFEWeB3tb4onLFZrZjI54RrUjjqaW0j5Kl8CGwPwVndP-STqBE0i5I4VeM_Tas71nQTd8_rhLFjjtPvs8_gm93wozWT-c0YYKNCWQqYc6BVrd/s1600/fur+hat.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452993153670512130" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 234px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcifB7kMf3SIg0v-Ig_IWynL9xrdwC7Z1VFEWeB3tb4onLFZrZjI54RrUjjqaW0j5Kl8CGwPwVndP-STqBE0i5I4VeM_Tas71nQTd8_rhLFjjtPvs8_gm93wozWT-c0YYKNCWQqYc6BVrd/s200/fur+hat.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Dave and I wander off the m<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQF-CGuP7jB5XFd1xTyjORpXct7p8e1BRAPNLgFREz4CKMpX43CTXyBDNxAbVU3RmnSt-FVlOn-vRPYyV8K98cH5j0Qx69eY_QdIN0ueaipVyAjh3JRGeX_AntK6KWIcrxIGwVH3Pr4Bim/s1600/Gates+Queens.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453038880897400210" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQF-CGuP7jB5XFd1xTyjORpXct7p8e1BRAPNLgFREz4CKMpX43CTXyBDNxAbVU3RmnSt-FVlOn-vRPYyV8K98cH5j0Qx69eY_QdIN0ueaipVyAjh3JRGeX_AntK6KWIcrxIGwVH3Pr4Bim/s320/Gates+Queens.jpg" border="0" /></a>ain drag in search of some spectacular houses we’ve read about in the Times. And there they are, just beyond the blocks of nondescript bland brick apartment buildings that could be anywhere in the city and are a blight on the landscape—why the hell can’t even low-rent housing be built with an eye to aesthetics? Commanding tiny lots in a neighborhood of sedate Colonials and bungalows that suggest any prosperous mid-Atlantic suburb, these sand-colored brick anomalies draw on a grab bag of architectural traditions.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="CLEAR: both;font-family:';" ><span style="font-size:small;"><a style="CLEAR: right; FLOAT: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OQOd36EZ_C7lpRRzVMmsCgWJeMWvbLB7x1n8WtysM1S-t6TygFCifvCh4yrvUrF0IhP6RzmvW69iSIv9Rw-hKBpSHwCLQ4hniUUrRJzic9_7jO_C9H7PJHGmgI1F2sy39dB30NCo_12b/s1600/P1030886.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OQOd36EZ_C7lpRRzVMmsCgWJeMWvbLB7x1n8WtysM1S-t6TygFCifvCh4yrvUrF0IhP6RzmvW69iSIv9Rw-hKBpSHwCLQ4hniUUrRJzic9_7jO_C9H7PJHGmgI1F2sy39dB30NCo_12b/s200/P1030886.jpg" width="254" border="0" /></a></span></div>They have Ionic columns and Palladian windows, marble balustrades and French mansard roofs, and the strangest shiny stainless steel gates that belong to no history of ornament I’ve ever seen. We spot an ultra-sleek structure with tall curving windows, suggesting a drug-fueled collaboration between Darth Vader and Robert Gwathmey, and another house that resembles an early Christian basilica with 20th-century brick wings. Most have small paved courtyards holding the neighborhood cars of choice—a late-model Mercedes or Lexus. A light shines from deep within some of these stately residences, but they are eerily empty, either newly built or their owners have fled to warmer climes for the season. We speculate that these are the houses and compounds of wealthy diamond dealers and wonder if <em>Architectural Digest</em> might like to pay a visit. Dave can’t stop snapping photos, but I am getting absurdly hungry. And so we are off in search of Bukharan eats.<br /><br /><strong>IF YOU GO: Take the R or V train to 67th Avenue in Queens. From 42nd Street in Manhattan, the trip takes about 40 minutes. Head toward the residential neighborhood, to your right as you climb the subway steps, to find the McMansions. </strong>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11105159283613975348noreply@blogger.com7